


Stress Relief

by VerySunnyDay



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Gang Rape, Humiliation, Hurt/Comfort, Language Barrier, M/M, Non-Sgrub AU, Other, Pale Romance | Moirallegiance, institutionalized dehumanization, karkat cares too much for his own good, repeated rape, sexual commodification of alien species, ways in which the alternian empire is fucked up
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-28
Updated: 2014-11-18
Packaged: 2017-12-21 16:12:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 18
Words: 53,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/902262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VerySunnyDay/pseuds/VerySunnyDay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Alternian empire keeps a large number of captive aliens as so-called "relievators" for its citizens to use. These serve an important function by giving the masses a safety valve for pent-up stress and frustration in an otherwise merciless and demanding society. Relievator use is physically pleasant and helps improve both mood, self confidence and general wellbeing. Everyone agrees on this.</p><p>There's absolutely nothing wrong with it. After all, they're just aliens, not actual people.</p><p>... Karkat would have been a lot happier if he could have seen it like that, too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Your name is Karkat Vantas, and you're one lucky piece of shit just for being alive. After all, you spent most of your wigglerhood convinced that you were going to be culled on conscription, and you would have been right if not for a string of unlikely and quite frankly unearned friend-of-friend-in-high-places cards that you somehow managed to play to fudge a few of the standard procedures when the drones arrived, making your mutant hemochrome go undetected. You've been torturing your eyes with stinging chemicals to darken them ever since your irises started to come in, and these days you also wear your cast sign in a deep rusty brown to match. As long as you keep your head down and don't draw any undue attention, all anyone can see is another lowblood recruit. That means you can _keep_ being a lucky, living, piece of shit.

It hasn't been more than a couple of perigrees since you were taken to serve aboard the Imperial Freighter _Excess_ , but that's two perigrees more than you ever expected to live, and despite some past mistakes that would indicate otherwise, you do like being alive and intend to stay that way as long as is trollishly possible. You know very well that your wiggler dreams of entering the threshcution force can't be realized unless you want the first scratch on your body to mean dishonorable discharge by culling fork, but the office position you managed to score has been cushy so far. You're finally a cog in the machinery of the glorious Alternian Empire, and that's fucking amazing.

So what if you're looking over your shoulder for every step you take. You're living in close physical proximity to several scores of lowblood trolls who didn't grow up with you and would probably _love_ to find out that your blood marks you as approximately ten million times as worthless as any of them. Watching out for yourself is a survival skill.

Yeah, maybe you're tense.

" _No_ , I'm not a fucking ballerincinerator twitching on a gutstring over putrid shit valley, why the hell do you ask?" You're yelling, as if there exists any other ways to get a point across. "Let me tell you what I am – I'm sick and tired of my old wiggler friends trying to cajole me into socializing with their new circles of asshole acquaintances and prospective quadrants and shitstain bulgelicking frienemies. I'm not fucking interested!"

Aradia, Tavros and Sollux all stare at you from around the small canteen table. They're about the extent of your social life these days, since they're the only ones of your childhood friends low enough to be assigned to the same vessel as yourself. You all went through the wringer at conscription – Sollux in particular only escaped life as a glorified battery by being quadranted not just to one, but _two_ seadwellers, one of which being the current Heiress herself. And Tavros might easily have been culled for disability if he hadn't had a blueblood vouching for the efficiency of his robotic leg prosthetics. You never spelled out to them exactly what your problem was, but they knew you back when you were honestly hemonymous rather than faking a shade of low brown, so you suspect they suspect, and if they haven't told on you yet, they probably won't. You didn't think they'd blame you for trying to stay alive by the skin of your teeth either, but you guess you were wrong about that.

"Wow, KK," Sollux says, "Way to convince us you're not going shithive maggots here."

"Yes," Tavros adds, "That is exactly, what you're not doing. It's not so bad, because conscription, being over, is not a thing to worry about any longer, and now is the time to get to know people, and enjoy yourself, and maybe fill some quadrants, because that is an important thing, to do."

"I know it's hard, Karkat," Aradia says, smiling cheerfully. "But you've got to relax and _live_ a little. Trust me, I know from qualified sources that it's hard to enjoy life once you're dead!"

"I know," you growl. "Aradia is joined to the hip with the speaking dead and poor Karkat is going to join them if he's not landing some concupiscent quadrants before the first imperial drones come for a visit in half a sweep. Well, maybe you're in luck! You'll have your own private dead Karkat voice swearing in your ear for the rest of fucking eternity. Or maybe I know what I'm doing and am just waiting for the right serendipitous moment to present itself. Better yet, maybe this subject is none of your bulgesquelching business, any of you!" 

Filling quadrants would be suicide by mutant disclosure. Not filling quadrants is suicide by imperial drone in half a sweep, but maybe you'll be able to fudge that too, somehow. In any case, for the moment you're mostly concerned with surviving today.

"We're actually, worried about you," Tavros says earnestly. You glare at him, then at the others. Part of you feels something close to gratitude, but there's nothing they can _do_ , and you wish they'd just leave you alone. 

"What are you, my tag-teaming moirails?" The thought makes your chest ache, because maybe you _would_ feel better if you had a palemate, but you don't dare go there either. Too much intimacy and you'd spill your secrets like a leaking bowl. "I'm as relaxed as I can be," you tell them. "Look at me, I'm the very epitome of loose muscles dangling gleefully around a living, slowly beating blood-pusher. In other words: I'm fine."

"Look, KK," Sollux says, pointing a bony finger at you. "I bet you don't even know this because of your newfound adult life as a social recluse and all, but the Excess got a new relievator a while ago, and you _really_ ought to use it before you turn into a hyper-tensivity field and go into an eternal feedback loop of grumpiness. Stuff like that gets you culled too, you know."

"Do you think I'm _planning_ to—" You stop. "Wait, we have a relievator?" You're vaguely acquainted with the concept – relievators are used as a mechanism for stress relief and physical and psychological wellbeing on many ships in the Alternian fleet. It's also one of the least romantic concepts in the history of the universe, but you have absolutely no right to speak about romance these days. You just didn't know there was a relievator aboard the Excess.

"Yeah." Sollux nods. "And if anyone ever needed to use one, that'd be you. If I were a shitty highblood cultist who I could name but won't, I'd say it works miracles, but since I'm a reasonable person I'll just say it's very effective. I used it first time some nights ago, and it pulled me right out of a flunk and I've got it booked again today, too. Seriously, I didn't think it would be as good as it is, but I guess all of those studies about trolls and instinctual needs and stuff have a point."

"I wondered that, if you didn't know about it," Tavros says. "But the relievator was delivered last week, apparently it's very fresh and recently captured, and using it really does help, when you're in a bad mood, or in a bout of low self-confidence, or some other problem."

"Huh." You frown, wondering if it _would_ help you. It certainly wouldn't solve any of your one-wrong-step-away-from-being-culled-at-any-given-moment problems, but from what you've read about the experience it's supposed to do wonders for peace of mind, and it _is_ supposed to be safe from a hemochromatic point of view. You can't dismiss it out of hand. "And you've all tried it already?"

"Yes!" Aradia says with a grin. "It put me in a wonderful mood, so I can really recommend it!"

"You're the second most grossly chipper troll in existence, so forgive me for not being impressed. You get in a good mood by the shape of a grubleg on your goddamn dinner plate."

"Yes, but using a relievator is different from that! Living trolls have all these _needs_ swirling around in our think pans, and a lot of the time we just ignore them, but then the tension builds up and causes over-aggression and revenge cycles and all sorts of problems. A relievator is like a safety vent for both physical pleasure and that urge to dominate that everyone has." There's a fierce tint to her smile.

"And since aliens can't make trolls produce quadrant-related hormones you can't even call it sex," Sollux notes. "It's just one hundred percent pleasant, with no messy emotional theatrics and no messy genetic materials spilling anywhere. Even a no-quadrant loser like you would enjoy it." You growl at the barb, but you're still listening.

"Yes," Tavros agrees, looking excited, "it's not sex, it's like, being in charge of your own body, and being self-confident, in the most powerful way. The relievator, it actually squealed, not just once, but several times, when I put my mighty bulge in it."

"Ehehehe." Sollux giggles in that dry way of his. "Come on, KK, you have literally nothing to lose."

Frankly, he's right. If you don't dare to pursue quadrants or get to know new trolls, the least you can do is allow yourself some pleasure. "Fine. I can see no reason not to. Where do I sign up?"

"I think it's booked up for a while right now, but like I said I already got a second time-slot coming up tonight. This is me officially inviting you to two-team the alien with me. What do you say?"


	2. Chapter 2

Sollux comes to find you again after you get off your next work shift. You're cautiously optimistic about the whole thing – you hate being honest with yourself, but you really need some kind of stress relief or at least something pleasant that will not risk getting you culled. And this _is_ supposed to be good. It's like Aradia said – you might as well try to enjoy yourself before you go shithive maggots and/or inevitably get your fucked up ass fried.

The block Sollux takes you to is on the recreation deck, close to the gym block. You haven't been going to the gym – too much risk of casual injury – so that has to be why you missed it. The door to the relievator block is narrow enough that Tavros would have had to twist his head sideways to enter, but massive, like it leads to a holding cell for a highblood criminal. You wonder idly if the relievator would try to escape otherwise, then wonder where that thought came from. It's just a fucking alien, who cares?

Sollux runs his identification stick in the automatic lock while you glance at a small list of rules on a piece of laminated paper attached to the wall next to the door.

* The Relievator must not be used without prior reservation.  
* Use the online reservation system to book a maximum of two (2) usage occasions per user, in advance.  
* Any user is allowed to bring a maximum of three (3) co-users per occasion.  
* Maximum usage time per occasion is 45 minutes. Shorter occasions are allowed. The user is under obligation to leave when the reserved time is up, unless specifically invited as a co-user on the subsequent user's occasion. Failure to follow this rule will result in security measures and denial of further Relieviator access.  
* Permanent or long-term injuries to the Relievator such as severe bleeding, broken bones, genital mutilation or facial disfiguration will be fined up to and including the cost of acquiring a new specimen.  


They seem like reasonable rules to you. Even egalitarian, considering that there are no restrictions on usage based on hemocaste. There's absolutely no reason for you to feel even a vague sense of discomfort, so you dismiss it as misplaced nervousness about trying something new. You've never fucked anything but your own hands before, after all. 

"Looks like someone's still in there," Sollux remarks when the lock chirps at him. "But then again, we're early. Maybe we'll have to wait like, _two_ minutes."

You shrug. "Fine, okay."

"I'm feeling pretty gracious tonight," Sollux says, "So if you want to have a solo go first, be my guest. I've got a half-hour booked, so we only have that much time, and I think there's someone else arriving after that. But go ahead as long as you remember to leave time for some double-teaming."

"Right."

Soon enough, the door opens briefly to let out a young and viciously grinning greenblood woman. You recognize her as one of the bridge crew but can't quite remember her name, so you ignore her out of habit. Sollux only hesitates for a moment before taking the hi-five she offers, though.

"There," Sollux says as the greenblood leaves. This time his ID stick opens the door like a charm. "After you."

You step inside. The relievator block is relatively small and almost bare, the walls and flooring covered with a thin layer of soft, white plastic. In the corner to the left is a water tap on the wall, the floor tilting slightly towards the drain below it. A small table bolted to the floor dominates one half of the block, and the other half isn't furnished at all. The relievator itself lies curled up on its side like a single splash of color near the far corner of the empty half. It doesn't move, but you can hear the creature's ragged breathing in the sudden silence after the door slides shut behind you and Sollux.

It looks weirdly... trollish. You're not sure what you expected, but there's something inside you that clenches unnaturally when you look at it, and you don't think it's lust. It's not that anyone would ever mistake it for a troll – the undefinable peachy shade of its skin would give it away immediately, and there doesn't seem to be the slightest hint of horn bumps under the tangled mess of black hair on its head – but it's got arms and legs and fingers and toes much like people do. All it's wearing is a thin metal collar around its throat, and its naked body is patterned with bruises and half-healed cuts from rough usage.

You catch yourself trying to determine its blood color, but the bruises range from yellow to deep purple, and the scabs on the cuts are dark brown. For all you know all aliens have rainbow-colored blood, and no, it doesn't matter. It's an alien; it's below such things as hemospectrums. Like you, except not because you're still a _troll_ thank-you-very-much.

Anyway, you're not going to rip it open anywhere to check its blood. Just because you're allowed to be violent doesn't mean you _have to_. You're just going to push your bulge up its nook or whatever hole it has and see if that makes you feel any more relaxed about balancing precariously on top of a culling fork.

Fuck, it sounds moronic when you put it like that.

You kneel next to the alien and put a hand on its hip, running your fingers down over its asscheeks. It's trembling under your touch, cowed and helpless and at your mercy, and you do feel a slight heat in your bulge at the prospect of asserting yourself and dominating the alien because you _can_. You get why using a relievator is supposed to be such a pleasant thing. But at the same time it somehow makes you feel gross. Like _you_ are the worthless one here, and it doesn't make any fucking sense. There's a lump in your stomach that could almost be guilt, though you can't and don't want to articulate why. 

Suddenly you're not sure you want to do this at all.

"Hey, KK, are you going to sit there staring at it all night?" Sollux says from behind you. "If you can't even find your own bulge and a suitable hole I'm going to take back my offer of letting you use it first."

"Go fondle your own seedflap. I'm just looking it over." Yes, that's what you're doing, not hesitating like a confused wiggler. 

You push the relievator's side down to make it lie on its back. It resists you for a fraction of a moment – like it's trying to protect itself by staying curled up – before remembering that it's futile and going limp. Like it should, because no matter your blood you're a _troll_ , and this thing is _not_ a troll.

So. You do look it over. You're not going to back down just because it feels a bit weird. You think the alien is probably male, or at least it has no chest globes, only a couple of small pinkish protrusions on the chest and a tiny indentation on the stomach. There's a bit of hair between its legs, and a couple of floppy, boneless bulges hanging there like there's no sheath to put them away in. Even those bulges are bruised, and that looks _painful_ – but it's just an alien, so whatever.

You should just fuck it and get it over with. If it doesn't feel good then you don't have to come back. Its mouth is half-open, breathing in shaky gasps past a swollen lower lip, and its teeth look blunt enough that it couldn't hurt you if it wanted to. You could easily put your bulge there and—

There's clear water running down the alien's face, like tears. It keeps trembling, too much like weak sobs. It looks young – if it was a troll's face you'd say it was about your own age, no older. For a moment its eyes meet yours – they're smaller than troll eyes, with a strangely off-white sclera and deep blue irises, similar to a troll's but not the same – and it makes a short string of hoarse sounds. It might even have been a words if aliens had been capable of real speech. 

You blink and take a deep breath, trying to will the discomfort away. You don't feel this at all. You know it's not a troll – not a person – and trying to imagine what an alien feels like is a retarded thing to do. But for some reason it doesn't feel right. 

And then the mental image of what it _must_ feel like to be treated like this sneaks up on you, ambushing you in full force. _Captured, degraded, beaten and used as an accessory for advanced masturbation by a whole fucking starship._

It's terrifying. What are you even doing here? You think you're going to be sick.

You close your eyes and desperately try to push the nausea away, but the disturbing image remains. What the fuck are you going to _do_? You can't be thinking these things. You _can't_. Using aliens as relievators is a perfectly normal practice with all sorts of beneficial effects. You _know_ this.

It doesn't help.

You barely notice that Sollux has seated himself on the other side of the alien – you only open your eyes when he sighs theatrically, just in time to see him run his claws over the relievator's chest. He pushes hard enough to leave marks, but not enough to draw blood. When he reaches those protrusions on its chest the alien flinches visibly, as if those are sensitive spots. Its arms jerk as if it reflexively wants to push Sollux's hands away, but it doesn't quite try to. Its face is tense and wet, and it's breathing in deep shudders.

You think it's too scared to struggle, too hurt to risk inviting more punishment. All that terror and pain, and no matter how much you want to you can't unsee it. _It's just an alien, just an alien, just—_

"Ehehehe," Sollux chuckles and pinches the chest protrusions to make the alien twitch again. "Look at these two little useless nubs. It reminds me of someone."

You tear your eyes away from the relievator and explode at Sollux instead. "Like every grubfucking hell it does!" Shouting is easier than trying to think. "I'm nothing like this bulgemunching alien _thing_ , and if you think otherwise maybe you need to have your ugly mutant eyeballs replaced with some proper see spheres."

Sollux grimaces. "What the actual fuck, KK." His face twists with both worry and irritation. "I know your issues have issues, but _come on_. That was a joke. You're supposed to be sticking your bulge in it already, and if you're too constipated to figure out how then _fuck you_. I'm taking the lead here." He's pulling down the zipper on his pants even before he's done talking, and the next moment he's got his bulge unsheathed; it's tall and thin and pointy just like the rest of him.

You suppress an urge to punch him in the face. It's not a sexy thought – though you admit you might have had a brief blackcrush on him and his annoying lisp sweeps ago – it just feels like he deserves it. Except nope, he doesn't, because he's just being normal and about to use the relievator the way it's supposed to be used, and you're being an unnatural pariah of nonsense emotions worrying about the pain of an _alien creature_.

Besides, you can't make a scene. Sollux is your friend, but he couldn't help you if you started acting like a madman; shit like that would be investigated and a drop of your blood spilled would be a death sentence.

You try to uncurl your fists as Sollux half drags and half orders the alien to turn around and get on its knees and elbows, giving himself a good angle for its crotch from behind. It hangs its head, hiding its face between its arms as Sollux widens the gap between its thighs a bit and open its asscrack up with his fingers, feeling around for the hole he wants. 

"It's a mammalian male so it doesn't have a proper nook, but the waste chute is nice and tight," he informs you. "Unless you're still a lame wiggler afraid of your own bulge you should team up with me and use its throat, that's nice too." He stops talking with a moan, slowly pressing his entire length inside the alien's ass. The alien under him makes a sound between a gasp and a whimper, the hair on its head visibly shaking as it trembles. Its forehead is on the floor, but it would be easy for you to force its head up and just do it.

Sollux looks up again, grinning, his bulge buried deep inside the alien now. "I promise," he says, "Whatever your big problem is, this _will_ cheer you up."

No, it won't. "I'm sorry," you say, making an effort to stay calm. You're not quite sure who you're apologizing to. "This makes me an ass, but I'm not feeling very well." It's definitely not a lie. You get to your feet and turn around.

"I don't fucking _get_ you, KK," Sollux growls, but he also starts thrusting, which makes him too busy to try to stop you when you flick the door open and slip through. It locks behind you, but the sounds of your friend pleasuring himself on a captive alien seems to follow you down the corridor.

You just barely manage to find a free ablution block before falling to your knees and losing the remains of your dinner.


	3. Chapter 3

You try to put the relievator out of your mind. You really do try. What's happening to it is not your fault, and it's also none of your business. It's not your _problem_. You have problems enough! So what if a creature who may or may not be able to think and feel exactly like a troll is being continually abused two decks above your head. Lots of ships have relievators. It's perfectly normal and it's not going to get you culled unless you do something utterly mindless, like trying to stop it from happening.

You shrug it off to your friends, blame the incidence on a bad stomach, and promise half-heartedly to try again some other time in order to change the topic of conversation. Over the next few nights you doggedly refuse to talk about it. Or about much at all.

You don't have to use it yourself, and you don't have to _see_ it being used. You can pretend it doesn't exist. If you pretend hard enough it will make your version of reality still completely fake, but maybe if you stop thinking about it that hard lump of horror and guilt will go away and you can continue with your regularly scheduled angst about your blood. _That_ is just an actual matter of life and death for you. 

* * *

\-- carcinoGeneticist [CG] began trolling gallowsCalibrator [GC] \--

CG: NEOPHYTE PYROPE.  
CG: DO YOU HAVE TIME TO ANSWER A QUESTION?  
GC: FOR YOU, K4RKL3S >:]  
CG: YES, BECAUSE CALLING ME BY AN INFANTILE WIGGLER NICKNAME IS DEFINITELY GOING TO HELP US RELATE AS MATURE CONSCRIPTED ADULTS.  
GC: 1M NOT 4CTU4LLY 4 N3OPHYT3 Y3T 1F YOU W4NT TO B3 FORM4L, THOUGH  
GC: 1M 4 M1NOR JUD1CR3T4RY  
CG: FINE, WHATEVER.  
GC: WH4TS TH3 QU3ST1ON?  
CG: I WANT TO KNOW WHAT THE DEAL IS WITH RELIEVATORS.  
GC: TH3 D34L  
GC: 1 S33  
GC: >:]  
GC: > :]  
CG: NO!  
GC: >:]  
CG: NOT LIKE THAT.  
CG: I MEAN, THE LEGAL DEAL.  
CG: HISTORY AND OWNERSHIP AND SUCH.  
GC: WHY TH3 SUDD3N 1NT3R3ST?  
GC: >:?  
CG: CAN'T I BE SIMPLY CURIOUS ABOUT SOMETHING THAT EXISTS AND IS A THING IN THE UNIVERSE WITHOUT AN EXAGGERATED BLOWN UP MENTAL BREAK DOWN AS A REASON?  
CG: THE SHIP I'M ON GOT ONE A WHILE AGO. I'M CURIOUS.  
CG: IS THAT REASON ENOUGH?  
GC: 1 SM3LL A WH1FF OF D1STR3SS  
CG: YOU CAN'T SMELL SHIT FROM ME.  
CG: WE'RE LITERALLY LIGHT SWEEPS APART.  
GC: TRU3  
GC: N31TH3R C4N 1 SM3LL TH3 S4D UND3RCURR3NT OF D3C31T 1N TH3 D4RK CHOCOL4T3Y GOODN3SS YOU TYP3 1N TH3S3 D4YS  
GC: DONT WORRY, 1M NOT GO1NG TO T3LL TH3 COURT  
CG: ...   
CG: I'M DENYING THERE'S A GRAM OF DECEIT IN MY OBVIOUSLY CHOCOLATEY BLODPUSHER, BUT I'M DULY GRATEFUL FOR THAT.  
CG: THANKS.  
CG: ABOUT MY QUESTION?  
GC: W3LL  
GC: 1M NO 3XP3RT ON TH3 SUBJ3CT!  
GC: BUT US1NG R3L13V4TORS 1S 4 V3RY OLD TR4D1T1ON  
GC: 1TS S41D TH4T W3V3 B33N C4PTUR1NG 4L13NS FOR US4G3 3V3R S1NC3 TH3 B3G1NN1NG OF TH3 3MP1RE!  
CG: SO WHAT ARE THEY?  
CG: THE COWED AND NEUTRALIZED REMAINS OF FIERCE BATTLES IN WHICH DOZENS OR HUNDREDS OF TROLLS WERE MOWED DOWN BY WEIRD ALIEN BULLET-SHOOTERS, OR WHAT?  
GC: NO, 4STON1SH1NGLY 3NOUGH, 1TS 4 LOT MORE 3FF1C13NT 4ND S4T1SFY1NG TO K1LL TH3 CR34TUR3S TH4T TRY TO ST4ND UP TO US W1TH GUNS BL4Z1NG  
GC: R3L13V4TORS 4R3 USU4LLY T4K3N 1N ST34LTH R41DS  
GC: W3 4CTU4LLY H4D 4 N3W ON3 D3L1V3R3D TH3 OTH3R W33K TOO  
GC: M4YB3 1TS FROM TH3 S4M3 R41D 4S YOURS  
CG: YEAH, MAYBE.  
GC: 1TS GOT SUCH 4 D3L1C1OUS SH4D3 OF BLOOD >:]  
GC: 4NYW4Y, 4LL 4L13NS 1N 1MP3R14L T3RR1TORY 4R3 TH3 PROP3RTY OF TH3 3MP1R3, WH1CH T3CHN1C4LLY M34NS THE COND3SC3 H3RS3LF  
GC: BUT SH3 DO3SNT N33D 4LL OF TH3M 4ND TH4TS WHY TH3YR3 D1SP3RS3D 4MONG TH3 SH1PS OF TH3 FL33T FOR COMMON US3  
CG: I SEE.  
CG: AND THERE'S NO PRIVATE OWNERSHIP OF THEM WHATSOEVER?  
GC: 1M PR3TTY SUR3 SOM3 S34DW3LL3RS 4ND V3RY H1GH H1GHBLOODS C4N G3T 4W4Y W1TH K33PING ON3 TO TH3MS3LV3S, 3SP3C14LLY 1F TH3Y C4PTURED 1T 4T TH31R OWN 3XP3NC3  
GC: OTH3RW1S3, NO, YOU C4NT BUY 4 R3L13V4TOR OF YOUR V3RY OWN 4ND K33P 1T 1N YOUR SL33PING BLOCK >:[  
CG: I NEVER SAID I WANTED TO.  
CG: I JUST WANTED TO KNOW ABOUT THE LEGAL STATUS OF RELIEVATOR ALIENS FOR REASONS OF PURE AND SIMPLE CURIOSITY.  
GC: V3RY W3LL!  
GC: 1S TH3R3 4NYTH1NG 3LS3 YOU W4NT TO KNOW?  
CG: NO, THAT'S FINE AND DANDY AND MY CURIOSITY IS SATISFIED LIKE I JUST USED A RELIEVATOR ON MY GENERAL GIVE A FUCK LEVELS.  
GC: K4RK4T, R3M3MB3R  
GC: 1F YOU G3T YOURS3LF CULL3D FOR STUP1D1TY, 1LL F1ND YOUR CORPS3 4ND K1LL YOU 4G41N  
GC: SO DONT  
CG: OF COURSE NOT.

\-- carcinoGeneticist [CG] ceased trolling gallowsCallibrator [GC] \--

* * *

You find yourself booking a time slot for relievator use.


	4. Chapter 4

You're still not sure what you expect to accomplish when you arrive, equipped with a shoulder bag, outside the relievator block at the set time about a week after the first time you saw the alien. You could tell yourself that you just want to be convinced that your gut feeling is insane, that the alien is a mindless thing and that using and abusing it is a perfectly reasonable thing to do. That would be the sensible approach.

Or perhaps you want to face the truth, even if it scares you.

The previous user has already left by the time you get there, and the door slides open as soon as you identify yourself. Your hand is definitely not shaking at all. It's not like _the relievator_ can hurt _you_.

The alien is just like last time, bruised and naked and curled up with its arms around its legs as if it's trying to make itself smaller, lying underneath the table this time. Although its eyes were closed, it looks up when you enter. Its face is blotched with red – gray around the eyes – and there's a new purple bruise on a cheekbone.

 _Fuck._ You thought you were ready for this, but somehow it hits you even harder than last week. Your fists clench and part of you just wants to turn around and leave again. There you have your answer. There is no way you can look at those weird white-and-blue eyes and tell yourself this is alright.

Instead of leaving you take a deep breath and force yourself not to cry.

It – no, damn it, that should be _he_ – looks more tired and resigned than anything, but he still shudders slightly when you take a step closer. He expects you to hurt and violate him, because that's what trolls _do_. All of you, all the time. It's a twisted feeling, being ashamed not of being a horrible mutated excuse for a troll, but for being a troll at all.

"I'm sorry for this," you manage. It's not enough and it's never going to _be_ enough, but you _are_ sorry. You open up your bag and pull out the soft brown blanket that you're now happy you decided to bring, tossing it in the alien's direction without going any closer than you already are. "Here, you can have this if you want." It's the least you can do, and perhaps the only thing.

You turn to sit down leaned against the opposite wall, arms folded on top of your knees and your gaze fixed somewhere close to the water tap, not on the abused alien. At least no one is going to touch him as long as you sit here.

The alien stares at the blanket for several seconds before moving, but then he stiffly snatches it up and sits up to cover himself in it. He moves like every movement hurts him – and you bet they do, the way he's been beaten and fucked up the goddamn waste chute and who knows where else over and over – but he still moves quickly enough to look desperate even from the corner of your eye. 

"Seriously," you say, looking at the wall. "I'm so fucking sorry you have no idea. Of course you have no idea, you can't even understand what I'm saying, but that doesn't mean you deserve _this_." You make a vague gesture around the relievator block. "This is a grubsucking scumbag thing to do to any living creature and I don't know how it never occurred to me that we _are_ grubsucking scumbags as well as viciously glorious conquerors. But guess what, sometimes you find that if you stop being a shitsnorting ignoramus the universe turns out to be worse than you ever imagined." You realize you're ranting at thin air, but you can't stop. It just comes tumbling out. "Aliens aren't supposed to be the slightest bit like trolls! You're a goddamned _commodity_. And that's not right because you're too much like trolls, and I have no _fucking clue_ how it can be that I'm the only nooksniffer who ever came upon that quite obvious concept. I guess that's just another one of the many ways I'm disqualified as a proper functional troll, but _fuck_ , I'm not even sure I want to—"

Your focus darts back to the alien when you hear him sob. He's gotten himself wrapped up in the blanket so thoroughly that only his face is visible as he sits leaned against a table support, and there really are clear streams of water running from his eyes. You suppose that has to be how his species weeps, and a more detached part of you realize how practical that would be from a hemochromatic point of view. The rest of you is horrified.

"I'm sorry," you repeat. "I thought the blanket— I mean, I thought it would help! I'd thought you'd want—"

The alien sobs again and pulls the blanket even tighter around himself. You're convinced he really does want it. You know _you'd_ want to hide yourself in cloth more than anything if you were in his situation, and he definitely acts like he feels the same way. But somehow it's also upsetting him.

He draws a shaky breath, raises his face a little bit and says something. It comes out a hoarse whisper, and it's complete nonsense to your ears, but if you keep assuming that he's similar to a troll, that _has_ to have meant something to him.

"Are you trying to speak?"

He does it again. It's still nonsense.

You grimace, fiddling with your claws. "I don't understand you," you admit, trying to think. Aliens aren't supposed to be able to talk. You've heard speculation that they have _some_ way of communication with each other, because otherwise it doesn't make sense that they've got agriculture and cities and mines and all of that stuff that you need to conquer in order to expand the empire. But it's not like people think too hard about it, because who cares about anyone who's not a troll, right? And it's hard to imagine that language could be different than it is. Speech is a function hardwired in every grub's brain from the night it hatches, even though it only manifests after a sweep or so of life. But perhaps aliens could be the same, except they're hatched with some _different_ way of speech? It feels more mindboggling than it probably should be.

The alien has grown quiet again, breathing deeply into the blanket. He's eying you with wary, confused eyes.

"Hey," you say on impulse. "My name is Karkat." You point at your forehead. "Karkat. _Karkat_." You turn your hand around and point at him. "Do you have a name?"

The alien tenses slightly, hesitating. "Kar-kat," he repeats slowly. It sounds weird from him – he intonates the vowels all wrong - but it _is_ a recognizable rendition of your name. Your bloodpusher suddenly seems to beat harder in your chest. 

"Yes, exactly! I'm Karkat. Now who are you?"

He buries his face in the blanket for a moment, taking several deep breaths. When you don't disturb him he finally looks up again. "Karkat," he repeats, then goes off into some utterly incomprehensible series of sounds. You think you can make out a "kat" and a "kar" in there, though, and then he... smiles? It's barely more than a hesitant hint of a smile, disappearing all too quickly, but it's there, all blunt-teethed and stupid-looking and universally understandable. The next moment he hiccups, then extends his hand a tiny bit outside the blanket to point back at himself. " _John._ ¤¤¤¤¤¤¤John."

"John?" You try to repeat his sound as close as possible, but of course it doesn't come out exactly the same. "Is that your name? John?"

He nods his head with fierce determination. "¤¤John! ¤¤¤¤¤John¤¤¤¤!"

 _Holy fuck._ You're actually communicating. Unless you're completely misinterpreted everything, you just exchanged names with an alien. He's got a name, and you bet your ass he's got friends and hobbies and quadrants and crushes and an old lusus and everything else that people are supposed to have, except he's now being kept here and used for other people's stress relief. You feel light-headed, not sure if you want to laugh bitterly or just cry. "Okay," you manage, quickly rubbing your eyes with your arm. "Hello, John."

"¤¤Karkat," John replies, and then says something that sounds like a question. Which you can't reply to, of course, because you have no idea what those sounds are supposed to mean. It's not like you're having _efficient_ communication. 

John shudders again like he can't control it, then wipes his face on the blanket and shifts it tighter around himself. He's eyeing you like he's still not sure you won't walk up to him and hurt him all the worse if he stops expecting it, and you can hardly blame him for that. At least he's not crying anymore, despite the shudders.

"This is so abysmally wrong," you say earnestly, even knowing that your words are meaningless to him. It's not like either of you can start understanding a way of speech you weren't hatched with, even if you're acknowledging that both of you can talk. "I mean, we do fucked up shit to trolls too for the betterment of the species and the empire and it's about as dignified as a shitstain on god's underwear, but this takes the Condesce's own wriggling day cake of wrong. You shouldn't even have to be involved. I mean, if you fight us we'll kill you, makes perfect sense, but this is just literally interstellar levels of _should not happen_." You find that you're clenching your fists at your sides, and John's face is tightening in more obvious fear again.

"I'm not angry at you," you say, trying to calm down. "I'm just fucking furious at practically everything else. Especially myself, because I can't actually help you, can I? The nicest thing I could do would be to kill you now and sign myself up to be culled for destruction of imperial property, but guess what, I'm too much of a cowardly growlbeast to be up for suicide just because I happen to have an overgrown compassion gland. So basically I don't want to hurt you but I can't save you and I'm _so fucking sorry_."

John sighs deeply and seems to relax a fraction. He leans his head against the table support and curl up inside the blanket, never taking his eyes off you.

You have no idea what else you can do, so you make yourself relax as well, leaning back against the wall at your end of the block. You can rant all you want, but it won't make a shit in space of difference. You're not going to spook him by moving closer; instead you let your head fall down on your knees and shut up for once.

The silence that spreads between you is almost companionable. Neither of you move as the moment stretches out. You wish it could last forever. The empire can go cull itself and you'll stay here with an alien named John who isn't all that much different from you at all.

You jerk your head up at an aggressive buzzing sound, telling you bluntly that it's been 45 minutes and your reserved relievator usage occasion is up. You have to leave, _now_. You can't think of anything you've ever wanted to do less, but you force yourself to scramble to your feet just as the door opens and a stocky brownblood guy with antlered horns – no one you know – comes inside, glaring at you. "Get out," he growls.

"Karkat?" John's bruised face is scrunching up again, and the way he says your name sounds like he almost but not quite dares hope that you'll stop this. You clench your jaws hard enough to hurt and fail to answer either troll or alien.

The troll grabs the blanket and rips it off John with a single jerk. John was sitting on it too, so ripping it off makes him fall over, sprawled naked on the floor with a gasp and a defeated sob. The troll pays him no mind, but tosses the blanket at you. "And take your stuff with you! That should be a rule already – _don't leave your trash in the relievator block_. The other day I found a huge sticky rubberball in here." He scoffs, obviously in a bad mood.

"Karka—" John tries again, but the brownblood kicks him in the ribs hard enough to make him roll over and slam into the wall, then kicks him again for good measure. The next moment the troll crouches down and sticks his hand between John's legs, grabbing the limp bulges there with his claws. John squeaks in pain, and the troll puts a few fingers of his other hand in John's mouth. The brownblood is starting to smile now, even as John's eyes are tearing up with clear water again.

You seem to be frozen in place. You think it was a while since you breathed. You're suppressing the urge to punch this guy's skull in, or at least shove him away from John and give him the smackdown of his life. You know very well that you can't make a scene. Even a verbal argument about this would ruin your life, and if it got down to a fight your blood gives you no leg to stand on. You _can't_.

"Now get out," the brownblood growls at you again, louder, granting you a vague glance behind his shoulder. He squeezes John's genitals as if for emphasis. "Before I call security."

"I'm sorry," you say; it comes out miserable and not directed at the other troll at all. Then you turn and flee.

You practically hug the blanket all the way back to the relative safety of your sleeping block before you allow yourself to break down into recriminatingly pink tears. You don't know if you hate yourself or the universe more. Finally you sit down by your husktop and book the next two free relievator usage time slots you can find.


	5. Chapter 5

You have to wait another three days before you can see John again. Lots of people will use him in the meantime and it gets to you whether you mean to let it or not. Looking at the reservation list, you see that Sollux is going to use him for the fourth time; Aradia and Tavros has had him a second time each.

Sollux must be looking at the list too, because he makes a smug comment over your next meal together about how you finally got your ass out of the four-wheel device and used the relievator too. "So was it better when you had some privacy and didn't have to face another troll's bulge or whatever the hell was wrong last week?"

You snap your teeth at him before you can stop yourself. "It was a lot better when I imagined it was your bony ass shut up in a small block for me and everyone else to fuck to pieces. Mutually concupiscent feelings are overrated! Just use an asshole's asshole for fun and profit!"

Sollux makes a grimace. "Gross, KK. That's disgusting even by _your_ standards. Do we need an auspitice here?"

You bite your tongue before you go off on a rant about how _fucking lucky_ it is that there's an alien in the relievator block and not a _real person_. He'd think you were completely off your handle shithive maggots, and you're half convinced he'd be right. "Whatever," you say instead. "I'm a disgusting filthmunching abomination who can't even kick myself on the back and lick my own bulge at the same time."

"Ehehehe." Sollux grins. "Admit that it's good not to have to lick your own bulge anymore."

You clench your teeth together and force yourself with great effort not to rise to the bait. "Eat my nubby horns, shitstain."

Aradia and Tavros arrive at the table with their food trays, and Aradia looks at your frown as if it's fascinating. "You know, Karkat," she says. "We're actually kind of worried about you, but it would be a lot easier to do something about it if you'd talk to us! You're way too grumpy for someone who had a full forty-five minutes on his own with a relievator last night. What happened?"

"Wow, AA," Sollux says, "way to push the pale stuff there. If I didn't know better I'd say you're cheating on me. Which I probably deserve for being such a horrible failure at everything, so maybe—"

Aradia shooshes him softly. "I'm not being pale at Karkat, I'm just concerned." She pats Sollux's shoulder. "I know you are too, it's just harder for you to say it."

Sollux snorts. "I bet he succumbed to his crippling bulgephobia again and spent the whole fucking forty-five minutes just sitting there and fondling his own nook."

Oh _fuck_. "We have a winner," you shout. "That's exactly what I did. Do you want to fuck my throat or my waste chute bloody as your prize?"

Sollux stares at you. So does Aradia. 

Tavros sighs. "Is that really, a thing that happens?" he asks in that very earnest voice he can summon sometimes. "I mean, not the part about, well, fucking Karkat as a prize, because obviously that is sarcastic hyperbole, like a lot of other things. But, the thing about 'bulgephobia'?"

"That's a very good question," Aradia agrees. "I have no idea if that's an actual medical condition."

"And if that was the reason, that Karkat doesn't have any concupiscent quadrants, that would be, uh, kind of bad."

"I'm not _afraid_ of my own fucking bulge!" you hiss, trying to not let the rest of the room pick up on the entire shitty conversation.

"But is there something wrong with it?" Aradia suggests. "A lot of genital problems can be fixed if you—"

"No," you say. "There's nothing wrong with my goddamn bulge and why the hell are we even talking about this? Time to change the topic to something that is even a fraction of a fuck less awful. Sollux! What kind of a nub-numbingly stupid program are they making you write this week?" 

You know you're an idiotic grubsucking pariah for just thinking what you do. You can't explain this stuff to your friends – there's no way in nine hells anyone would stop doing something that is fun and reinvigorating and completely normal just because it makes _you_ queezy, and the last thing you need is attention for being some kind of dissenthinker. That is just one short step away from bloodletting, official or otherwise.

You wish you had refused to see the alien in the first place. Then you wouldn't have known, and what you don't know can't kill you with crippling guilt. You don't know what the fuck is wrong with you. Things would be so much easier if you could get yourself to see John as the mindless fucktoy he's supposed to be. But no, you _know_ he's not mindless. And he can't deserve to suffer like this.

You make yourself eat, then deal with your work, then sleep. John is being used again and again and again while you go about your life, but you can't do a fucking thing about it.

* * *

You should find out more. Maybe you still have some kind of vain hope that there's something you've overlooked and the relievator system is justifiable after all. Somehow. That would make your day and prove beyond all doubt that Karkat Vantas has all the intelligence and maturity of a developmentally challenged reptite. Or maybe you just have a morbid need to see just exactly how deep this shit is.

Well, Terezi said relievators have been captured and used since the beginning of the empire, and that in itself is hell of a deep pile of shit if you want anyone to stop. Which you obviously don't because it's impossible _and_ would get you culled before your time.

In any case. You want to know more, and you do know some people who might have stories to tell.

 

\-- carcinoGeneticist [CG] began trolling arachnidsGrip [AG] \--

CG: HEY.  
CG: MS PSYCHO SOCIOPATH, I'M TALKING TO YOU.  
AG: Hey, did you stop to think a8out the chance that I might 8e too 8usy to talk to every old loser I used to know trolling me all over again?  
AG: I'm a pretty 8ig deal these days!  
AG: Can you guess what's in my fire, Karkat?  
CG: ALL OF THE IRONS, I ASSUME.  
AG: Aaaaaaaall of them!!!!!!!!  
CG: LIKE FUCK THEY ARE.  
CG: YOU'RE A GLORIFIED MAILMAN.  
AG: The title is Deliveradicator, m8.  
AG: And it's a sweeeeeeeet deal.  
AG: I get to travel all over the empire and meet aaaaaaaall the 8igshots.  
AG: What do you do?  
AG: Oh, I forgot, you sit in a supply ship office staring at num8ers all night.  
AG: It sucks to 8e 8usted as a low8lood, doesn't it? :::;)  
CG: WHATEVER.  
CG: I WAS GOING TO ASK YOU A QUESTION.  
CG: IF YOU'RE TRAVELING AROUND TO ALL OF THESE BIGSHOTS' SHIPS I BET YOU HAVE SEEN A FUCKTON OF RELIEVATORS.  
AG: Hahahahahahahaha!  
AG: I've seen soooooooo many. And used them.  
AG: It's the 8est part of adult society, hands down.  
CG: WE GOT ONE ON THE EXCESS A COUPLE OF WEEKS AGO, AND I WANT TO KNOW SOME STUFF FROM SOMEONE WITH MORE EXPERIENCE THAN THE SHITSTAINS OVER HERE.  
CG: I FIGURE YOU WOULDN'T MIND TELLING ME STUFF IN EXCHANGE FOR AN OPPORTUNITY TO GLOAT.  
AG: You didn't even have one when you were assigned there?  
AG: Man, low8lood freighters are the saddest things.  
AG: What do you want to know?  
CG: FOR EXAMPLE, WHAT DO THEY USUALLY LOOK LIKE? I DON'T EVEN KNOW IF OURS IS COMMON OR NOT.  
AG: It pro8a8ly is! I'd 8e surprised if your ship got a rare one.  
AG: The weirdest one I ever used was 8asically just a four-eyed head and a 8unch of prehensile tentacles or tails or something. It was a 8it challenging to find the 8est way to use it, 8ut in the end it was gr8!  
AG: 8ut usually they look pretty similar to trolls, with all the 8ody parts more or less where you'd expect them.  
AG: It's more convenient for everyone that way, so the hunters go for those kinds of aliens more.  
CG: RIGHT.  
AG: There's a lot of variety in the details, though! What does yours look like? I 8et I can name the species.  
CG: WAIT, BACK UP.  
CG: ARE YOU SAYING THERE ARE ACTUAL UNITS OF HUNTERS ESPECIALLY FOR CAPTURING RELIEVATORS?  
AG: Oh man, don't you know aaaaaaaanything?  
AG: You're so lucky you came to me! You're talking to a lady who visited a relievatunter ship less than a perigree ago and got a first-hand look at the whole deal!  
AG: I know aaaaaaaall a8out it!  
AG: I even got to try out one of the newly captured aliens! It was this female mammalian thing with soft brownish skin.  
AG: They had a fresh 8atch of four of the things captured the night 8efore I got there, so it was all aggressive and squeamish.  
AG: It had its hands cuffed 8ehind its 8ack so it couldn't really do much, 8ut it still tried to fight me! Can you 8elieve it?  
AG: And it kept making these horri8le alien noises at me. Not just screaming and whimpering and stuff, 8ut making these long strings of weird nonsense sounds. ::::/  
AG: I had to practically 8eat it 8loody 8efore it finally settled down enough that I could get my 8ulge in.  
AG: It was weird. 8ut a gr8 experience!  
CG: WOW.  
CG: THAT'S  
CG: YEAH.  
AG: There's only like a handful of active relievatunter teams in the entire empire. It's a really prestigeful jo8.  
AG: 8ut I've got a foot in now, and I'm actually thinking a8out getting into that 8usiness once I've got more experience.  
CG: WHAT  
CG: WHAT DO THE RELIEVATUNTERS DO, EXACTLY?  
AG: ::::)  
AG: Well, o8viously they raid the fringe planets for specimens!  
CG: FRINGE PLANETS.  
AG: Yeah, it's 8etter to raid in the areas not actually incorporated in the empire. The 8est planets are those that don't even have interstellar travel. If you do the hunt right no one will ever know what happened, so you can keep coming 8ack the same world if it has the kind of aliens people want!  
AG: It's much more exciting than picking them from already su8dued worlds.  
AG: You can keep it up until the aliens catch on and try to fight you, and that's when the 8attleships come in.  
AG: It's pretty close to a life of true piracy, don't you think?  
CG: AND THEN THEY JUST HAND THEM OVER TO WHATEVER SHIP WANTS ONE?  
AG: No no no no no no no no!  
AG: Duh!  
AG: First they have to acclimatize the aliens to their f8 as relievators.  
AG: I mean, it could 8e done on each ship separately, 8ut it's so much easier and faster to leave it to the experts.  
AG: And 8efore that they have to cull any specimen that are too old or weak or carrying diseases that can 8e transmitted to trolls. They're very thorough, 8ut I've heard some 8loodcurling stories a8out diseases that got through. :::;)  
AG: The 8asic procedure is pretty tight, though.  
AG: After they choose which ones to keep, the professional team work on them very deli8er8ly for five days.  
AG: They always keep a captured 8atch together for the first two days, so they get to see each other being used and unlearn any stupid pack 8ehavior.  
AG: 8ut then you separate them and keep them strictly separate, 8ecause they're not going to have anything to do with each other later.  
AG: And... Oh yeah, they use restraining equipment on the specimen for the first three days only, 8ut after that the collar should 8e enough.  
AG: Most times you'll take a sixth day to ru8 them down with some regener8ive slimes and lock them up to rest in these kind of chests so you can deliver them in good condition!  
AG: oooo_oooo  
AG: Hah. Oh man.  
AG: I can't 8elieve I typed all that.  
AG: I don't think the relievatunters recruit 8elow teal, though, so you're out of luck!  
AG: What do you say, Karkat?  
AG: Any more questions or are you going to tell me a8out that particular relievator of yours already? ::::)

\-- carcinoGeneticist  [CG] ceased trolling arachnidsGrip [AG] \--

 

Fuck it, that's enough. You regret asking. You clench your teeth and up the sopor dose in your recuperacoon for the day before throwing yourself in it, but your dreams are still uncomfortable.


	6. Chapter 6

You arrive early to the relievator block this time, mostly because you can't stand looking at the walls of your respite block any longer and you don't feel like hanging out with people in the lounge block. There's an annoying mixture of rage and dread lodged deep in your guts, but that's nothing new. You do realize that there's probably nothing you can do for John except this – giving him some brief rest from the abuse once in a while – and it's not much. But for some reason you still want to do it.

When the door doesn't open for you, you lean against the wall next to it and wait, trying and most likely failing to look casual. You find yourself sighing, your fingers fiddling with the clasps of your shoulder bag. It turns out you can't actually hear what's going on on the other side of the door from here – the relievator block seems to be decently isolated – but you can imagine, and that's bad enough.

Eventually, after what must have been five fucking sweeps – or at least five minutes – the door opens and three of your rustblood co-workers from the office appear. They look slightly winded but a lot happier than you've ever seen them at work. You try to ignore them.

"Hey, Karkat," Fandra says cheerfully, because _of course_ she does. She's barely a sweep older than you, but she's one of those grubsucking assholes who can't keep their fucking gaze globes on their own goddamn business. "I think you should join us next time," she says. "I bet it's kinda boring to have a solo go at the relievator right after some really _intense_ users." She chuckles, and the other two grins.

"Yeah, you totally should," Grende adds beside her. "If you think you could keep up, that is." He smirks crookedly while you gnash your teeth and glare at him.

Fandra rolls her eyes. "Anyway, have fun. You need it, grumpypants."

You nod stiffly, then hurry to slip inside the relievator block before you do something you'd regret. You forget all about it anyway the moment you see John.

He's lying on his back this time, spread-eagled right in the middle of the room, panting shallowly. His face is tight and twisted, his body bruised and scratched and wet, and he makes no sign of having noticed your entrance – not even when you take another step towards him and try to say his name. You're not sure you get the alien sound right, though.

You swallow, averting your eyes, but there's a lump the size of the Alternian empire stuck in your throat. _Your_ people are doing this to him. Your friends, your colleagues, your old crushes, _everyone_. How the hell can you be the only one to see what is happening?

This is the polar opposite of stress relief. Hah fucking hah.

Frankly, you don't _have_ to do this. You could still make yourself close your eyes and leave the status quo alone; it's not like you can make a real difference anyway. Your think pan must be as mutated as your blood to make you care about this clusterfuck in the first place when every other troll in existence use relievators without a second thought. You have your own fucking life to worry about! You don't have to—to—

You shudder and busy yourself by digging out the blanket from your bag, the same blanket as last time. "Hey, John," you try again as you toss it closer to him, and you think his face twitches a little, but he still doesn't react in any obvious way. You look away from him again; it's not like his naked half-broken body hasn't been gawked at enough.

"Just take the blanket," you tell the wall. "It'll help a little bit. And I know, you need 'a little' help about as much as a dehydrated seadweller needs 'a little' water in the desert, but it has to be better than _not_ having it." He's not moving. 

"This is stupid, I don't even know why I'm talking to you, are you even listening? Not that it matters if you do – perhaps we should try some kind of stupid gesturing thing like a society for soon-to-be-culled wigglers with hear tube deficiensies? Look, there's no fucking way I can apologize properly for what we're all doing to you, so I'm not even gonna try, I'm just going to stay here and make sure no one touches you for forty-five minutes, and that's it." You pause for air. "I'm so fucking sorry."

In the silence that descends when you stop talking you can hear him breathing, too fast and too shallow. He still doesn't move, even when you turn back to look at him after all. You don't know what to do – he looks horrible. Like he's too spent to even bother to try to shield himself. He's covered in what must be transparent sweat and tears, and there's some kind of sticky white fluid smeared on his chin and part of his chest. There are dark red bruises on his throat above the collar, and he's got fresh claw marks all over his body. Your bloodpusher is boiling with emotions you can't even put a name to, except for a burning conviction that this is _wrong_.

And then you flinch. Not all of the claw marks cut deep enough to draw blood, but some do, and some are fresh enough to still be bleeding. Even as you watch there are droplets forming in the scratches on his chest and hips. In a painful-looking gash on the inside of his thigh the droplets are breaking and running slowly down his leg. That's what his blood looks like.

It's bright red.

"Oh god."

You barely even notice how your legs fold underneath you, dropping you on the floor with a thump. Your arms wrap around your own body as if you're about to fall apart, and you can't stop staring.

"Oh fucking shithumping taintstained god."

He is _like you_. Maybe he was a pariah on his own world too, or maybe it's even a common color there, but his blood is red as cherries and candy drops and lifelong terror. He's not a troll, but his bloodcaste is the same fucking impossible shade as yours.

It doesn't make sense. You _are_ a troll, but you've always known you're going to be culled for being a bloodfreak sooner or later, and now it turns out this fucktoy alien is the exact same kind of bloodfreak as you are. Fuck, if he's not a person, then maybe you shouldn't be considered a person either. The idea doesn't hurt as much as it probably should.

You think you must have stopped breathing at some point, because you can hardly find the air to speak. "Shit. _John_."

Maybe it's because he's listening to you and maybe because he only now found enough strength to move, but John finally rolls over on his side, curling up on himself like an unhatched wiggler. His half-open eyes meet yours for a moment – they're white and blue and alien and it doesn't matter one shit, because you can clearly see yourself in them, somewhere behind all that pain and despair. You want to save him. Oh god, why can't you save him?

"I'm so fucking sorry," you tell him again. It's a useless, shitty thing to say, and you know it.

John draws a slightly deeper breath, coughs, then says something. His voice is weak and raspy and the words are as nonsensical as last time, but you think it's a question. Frankly, you're not sure he even recognizes you, and the question could easily be something along the lines of _what are you waiting for?_

"I'm waiting for you to take the goddamn blanket," you say with a small gesture. Your eyes itch with tears that you're not going to allow out.

John might not have noticed the blanket before, but suddenly he stares at it, flicks his eyes from it to you and back, and then makes a weird little sound that might or might not be a word. His arms are shaking when he reaches for it, and his whole body trembles as he stiffly but quickly hides himself under it. He doesn't bother even to wipe blood or stickiness away. You think he might be crying again, and he's holding the blanket tight around himself like it's an emergency space suit and the only thing that keeps him breathing.

"Yeah," you tell him. "Good." You shake your head slightly. "I wish I could let you keep it."

John shudders again. "Kat... Karkat." He stumbles on the name between weak sobs, but you're sure it's yours, and you're actually surprised by how relieved you are to hear it.

"Yes! I'm Karkat. I'm glad you remember me, I was starting to worry." You have no idea if being constantly fucked and beaten and treated like an item can cause short-term memory loss, but whatever. There are too many things you have no idea about.

He says something more. His voice is raw, but he keeps talking for a bit, like it's something he really wants to say. You think you'd give up every single of the few privileges you have to know a way to imprint his alien words on your thinkpan and actually _talk_ to him. It still wouldn't help – it wouldn't make him any less imperial property – but maybe you'd be able to explain it to him, at least. Fuck, he can't have been able to talk to anyone since he was captured, or at least since he was separated from his species-mates, and you _knew_ that, but now it suddenly hits you what it means. Every single person he's seen for almost a perigree has been an incomprehensible alien monster to him, only interested in using his body, one after another, over and over. And it's going to stay that way for the rest of his life, however long that'll be. 

You realize that you're staring at your own tightly clenched fists in your lap.

"Shit, John," you say, looking up. You wonder what you look like to him. Just another one of the monsters, aren't you? You wonder if it'd help if you cut yourself somewhere and show that you have the same hemochrome as him, and if that is a risk worth taking. "You know, if I had some way to imprint your weird xeno-language in a troll's think pan, I'd do it to _everyone_. If they could hear you make words and not just sounds, maybe it'd start to dawn on people like Sollux and Aradia what they're doing to you. They're not _bad_ people! They'd never do this to a troll!" You wave around your arms – John shrinks back, but you can't stop. "I mean, I can dream, right? Though frankly, if the empire has been using people like you for thousands of sweeps and never caught on that it's horrible, I don't think it _wants_ to catch on. And if I point out something that the empire doesn't want to hear, well, I'm already cullbait, so that's a short story! Maybe if I was a nice and purple seadweller or something I could get around that – but then I'd probably be sitting with three of you in my own personal fuck factory and don't care one shit, wouldn't I? And that's completely irrelevant because I'm a fucking mutant and probably half alien myself for all I know. I assume the mother grub thought it was stumplickingly amusing to add some little star piss to the slurry and squirt out the ugliest egg of them all!"

You stop to breathe. John is staring at you warily, but he doesn't seem outright scared of you. In fact, when you go silent he makes a short comment that ends with a puff of air that might actually have been a quiet "heh".

"Yes, I'm ranting. That's what I do. Congratulations, you now know most of what there is to know about me."

John is still trembling, and there are stronger shudders going through him now and again, and there is no way he's not in a good deal of pain. But it comforts you that he's making comments, and he's breathing more or less normally. You sit in silence together for a while.

_You could close those few steps between you right now and hug him. You could hold him and shoosh him and pet him until he actually relaxes, and let him sleep with his head in your lap. And then—_

Where the fuck did that thought come from? Yes, of course you pity him like hell – he's an innocent guy stuck as the chewtoy for a whole shipload of troll barkbeasts. But he's still an alien! You can't be _pale_ for him! That's just... it doesn't happen.

_And why not? Because aliens aren't people?_

Fuck. You facepalm so hard that you startle John into flinching and making a weird little squeak. He's jumpy as newborn gnawcritter, and he definitely wouldn't appreciate you touching him, no matter how pale you felt.

Besides, the whole concept is stupid, because you _can't save him_. In twenty minutes or so you're going to leave him for the next shiteater who wants to fuck him apart. Anything else would probably mean your death, and it still wouldn't help John.

Suddenly it feels like you're choking. "John," you manage. "I'm sorry. I'm _so fucking sorry_." You snap your teeth together and shut up like there are no more words. It hurts to think. You have to stop.

John hesitates for a few moments, watching you with narrow eyes and chewing slightly on his swollen lower lip with those blunt teeth he's got. Then he takes a deep breath and speaks, slowly and carefully, though his voice is barely up to it. " _Ofakinsori_." He frowns at you. "Karkat? Ofakinsori, ¤¤¤¤¤?"

At first it just seems like more nonsensical alien speech, but the next moment you realize he's trying to repeat your own words back at you. Like a mimicbird. Not that that is any less nonsensical, but it's nonsensical pretend troll speech. "Yes," you agree. "So fucking sorry. That's what I said. I mean it, but it's just sounds to you, right?"

"Yess-ofakinsori." John chews on his lip again, and finally wipes the stickiness from his face. "Karkat..." He pauses before going into a long string of alien words in his low, raspy voice, clutching the blanket tightly like it's giving him courage. You find yourself wondering what his voice would sound like if his throat wasn't being used for other things by everyone and their matesprit's moirail. Fuck that, you were supposed to stop thinking, weren't you?

John stops talking and looks at you nervously, like he thinks you might react. You have no idea in what way. Repeating people's words only reminds you of a stupid game for lame wigglers, and the rest of his speech is just a frustrating blur of strange sounds with no intrinsic meaning at all. Does he want you to latch on to something and repeat it back at him, too? Frankly, you don't think you could – his sounds are too weird to stick in your memory.

"I don't understand what you're saying," you tell him with a sigh. "I'm hatched with the wrong damn language bulbs! We could sit here talking at each other forever without getting a single point across, and I have no fucking clue how to fix that. Hell, maybe I'll bring a notepad next time and you we'll find a way of adapting troll pictionary to a dialogue or something. Is that idea stupid or brilliant? I can't even tell! I've never tried to talk to an alien before, have you?"

John takes a deep breath and shudders again, but then his face tightens like he's trying to steel himself for something. He looks half determined and half terrified as he carefully shrugs one battered arm out of the blanket and points at his own chest. "John," he says slowly. Then he points at you. "Karkat." Finally he makes a sweeping gesture that takes in the rest of the room. "¤¤¤¤?"

You frown at him. He seems to expect you to get it. Does he want more names? The name of the starship? But—

John tries again. He points at the floor. "¤¤¤?" The ceiling. "¤¤¤?" The door. "¤¤?" The water tap. "¤¤¤?"

You blink. "What?" You're probably as dumb as a rotten pouncebeast carcass killed by a newly hatched snoutbeast, but it seems like... "You want... words?"

John looks at you with fierce determination, but of course he can't answer the question. He doesn't _have_ the words. But – he wants you to tell them to him? Is that even possible? A few random words, sure, but enough to be meaningful? You try to wrap your mind around it, but language isn't something you can just memorize – either you're born with it or you're not. That's why lusii can't talk, and aliens – well, if aliens are hatched with some other way of speech, that's one thing, but could it be possible to _learn_ a whole different way to do language? Everything you know tells you that's as unlikely as a frog shitting in a tarpit. 

But damn it, what if it _is_ possible? You think your bloodpusher skips a beat. A few words is something that you _can_ give him. 

"Floor," you say slowly, tapping your finger on the floor.

John's eyes widen, and for the first time you think there is a tiny bit of hope in them. "Flooa," he repeats, and the word is recognizable though a little bit off. "Flooa, flooa, flooa."

"Yes, floor." This feels weird.

"Yes flooa," he repeats. "Yes. Flooa." He starts saying some alien words, but they're cut off by an attack of sobbing shudders. He tangles his arm back inside and pulls the blanket all the way over his head, like it could keep him from falling apart. Your urge to hug him just doubled, but no, don't freak him out more, stupid.

"John?" you try instead. "What happened, John?"

He keeps sobbing.

"Shhhhhh," you say without thinking. "It's okay. Shhh." You even start to reach out for him before you stop yourself. Fuck you, you can't shoosh him. Nothing is okay here, and you can't force him to pretend it is. You shut up.

Maybe it helped, though. There are new watery tears on his face when he finally looks up, but it seems like he's fighting to calm down. "Yes," he manages. "John. Yes, yes, yes." It's like he's trying to claim he's fine, and you can't help but make a soothing noise in your throat.

Eventually he sniffles. "Yes," he croaks again. "Karkat." He hiccups, then points back at the floor. "Flooa," he names it. He raises his hand and points up. "¤¤¤¤?"

"Ceiling," you reply.

"See-lin." His shoulders shake slightly, but closes his eyes like he's trying to think, and repeats the word. "Seelin, seelin, seelin. Yes, seelin." He points at the floor again. "Seelin?"

You roll your eyes. "No, that's the floor."

"No, flooa." He nods and licks his lips. Then he points up and tries the same thing, but this time he answers his own question. "Flooa? No, seelin." He wipes his eyes and there's the tiniest hint of a smile on his face.

"Wow." You're actually impressed. He has all of four words, and he's trying to _use_ them. "Yes, that's right!"

"Yes, dasrayt?"

"That's—right—" you repeat, more slowly.

"Dats. Rayt." He's starting to breathe too fast again, staring at everything with wild eyes, but for once he looks more excited than cowed and hurt. He points down. "Seelin? No, flooa. Flooa? Yes, dats rayt." He turns to you. "Dats rayt? Karkat?"

"That's right," you agree, because it _is_ right. It's better than right. He's talking like a troll. It's clumsy and limited and slightly mispronounced, but he's talking in troll words. If he can actually _learn_ to speak like a troll... You don't think everyone would listen, but a bunch of people might. Oh holy shitguacamole on the purple moon, you might actually be able to help him after all.

You go on to give John "table", "door" and "blanket", and even though his voice almost gives out completely from the way he makes himself practice the words it's amazing to see him focused on something other than pain, and you feel almost giddy hearing him speak understandably.

The buzz comes like a punch in the gut, reminding you that time is up. John freezes immediately and practically shrinks, squeezing the blanket around him like he's trying to merge with it.

You swallow and stumble to your feet, feeling nauseous. "I'm—I'm sorry," you tell him. Maybe he's already gotten the meaning of that word, too. "I have to go."

You think he knows that. He must have noticed the buzzes and the way the trolls abusing him switch around by now. And he knows you left him to them last time. He still looks at you like he almost dares to hope you'll protect him. "I have to go," you repeat, glancing at the door.

"No," he whispers, turning to stare at the floor and not at you. "Karkat, no. No Door, no." He's terrified – _of course_ he's terrified – and you feel like a chewed up piece of hoofbeastshit for doing this to him. But the next user could enter any second, so you _have_ to get out of here. And you really should get the blanket back, too. The next troll won't let him keep it anyway, and you want to wash it so you can give it to him again next time. It's the only blanket you have, and it's not like you can afford to have new ones delivered out here in deepspace.

"I'm sorry," you repeat. "I need the blanket, too." Fuck, you're such a despicable piece of scum. "The blanket." You hold out a hand towards him.

He knows 'blanket' now, and the worst part is that he doesn't even _try_ to refuse. He just drops it, stiff as a piece of wood, then crumbles into a small heap, naked and broken and every muscle tight as a wire. All you want is to pick him up and make it all better, but you don't.

"I'll be back," you promise as you pick the blanket up, but you know he can't understand.

There's a yellowblood woman waiting outside when you leave. Apparently she was polite enough to wait until you got out, but she gives you a hard, disapproving stare. You ignore her and practically run down the corridor, clutching the blanket hard enough that your hands hurt.


	7. Chapter 7

It freaks you out when you look at the blanket back in your respite block and it turns out the stains where John's blood rubbed off on it aren't red at all. They're some kind of dark rust or brown that is not all that far from the blood you _pretend_ to have, but a far cry from your mutant cherry. It's enough that you almost think your wretched think pan made that part up, but that would be too blatantly pathetic even for you. It was red, now it's brown. There are some chemicals and slimes that change color when they dry, so why not alien blood? It feels weird in ways you can't quite articulate – like, how do you make paint from it? But then again, you've never actually heard of anyone painting with alien blood. 

So John's blood is chemically different from yours, big surprise. But with with this dried version looking like your fake color, he's got the same hemochrome as you _twice_. It's... both comforting and very disconcerting.

The two of you would still bleed the same color if you fought back to back. The thought makes you grimace, because it's almost as appealing as it is unrealistic, and you can't seriously be pale-crushing on the guy you just left to be abused _yet again_. The guilt is already eating you alive, and you'd already concluded even before you knew about John that relieviators are extremely unromantic by default.

_Doesn't that just make it all the more serendipitous?_

You bury your face in your hands with something between a sigh and a growl. You can't even hate your life anymore, because at least it's not like _his_ life.

You want to teach him more words, because at least that is a thing that can be done, but your next time with John is four days away. Until then you just have to stand back and wait, letting other people release their aggression and pent up stress on him while you do nothing. You're a loathsome, despicable fucked up piece of excrement, aren't you?

You force yourself to raise your face. You still have to book a new second time slot.

Scrolling down the list of names and relievator usage occasions only makes you feel numb. You'd like to think you're too mature to roar and beat the walls in impotent rage, but the irony in keeping all that anger and stress bottled up isn't lost on you.

John is _busy_. There are no empty time slots coinciding with your off-shift hours for many days. Reaching the sixth day makes you hesitate, though, because it's completely unbooked, and that's weird. The day after that has some taken time slots again, so it's only that one day.

You tentatively try to book a time during the empty day, but the system tells you that "The Relievator Block is unavailable during this time frame." It's the same message you get if you try to book a time during the slowly rotating shift set aside each day for the relievator's "status recovery", but it seems unusual and frankly unlikely that John would be allowed to rest for a whole day. It makes you uneasy, though you suppose it is probably some kind of special maintenance thing, or maybe the Captain decided to forego the whole egalitarian booking system and keep John for private use all day. It can't be _worse_ than what he's otherwise going through every single day.

The first time available for you to book is on the day after the blank day, eleven days from now and a whole week after the next time you see him. This isn't soon enough – it's not _nearly_ soon enough – but it's the best you can do. John's situation feels like a dagger in your guts, but _whatever_. You snap the husktop off with too much force.

You'll see him in four days. It's not that long.

* * *

It's just four days, but you're restless.

During the recess time of your first work shift after seeing John you decide that you might as well try to check the public records from the Excess' last port call. That's when John was brought aboard, and there could be clues to what exactly John is and where he came from. You know practically nothing, after all.

The record of John's allocation to the Excess isn't hard to find, though it's very brief. He's simply described as a "newly captured relivator, male mammal, species B20-413." But that's enough since it does tell you what his species is called, which means you can look it up in the public database.

B20-413  
Trolloid mammal species native to an A-class planet by an R-class star in the B20 sector. First discovered in the sweep 998 of Her Imperious Condescension's glorious reign by the relievatunter team led by Samdel Fornov. The planet holds limited natural resources. No FTL technology.

John's planet was discovered as recently as nine sweeps ago, and his people doesn't have proper space travel. It has to be like Vriska said, a fringe planet that isn't even aware of the existence of the Alternian empire yet. The database doesn't tell you the coordinates, only the sector, so perhaps this Fornov guy has claimed it for his team's relievator hunting. Not that anything would change if you had exact coordinates.

The species is physically similar to trolls in its basic shape, though hornless. Its skin color spans a range from very dark brown to a very light peach. The most common hair color is black, but lighter colors such as orange and yellow nuances also exist. Older individuals' hair may be white or gray. Eyeballs are white and irises generally brown, though other colors such as blue and green are also found. Despite differences in outer coloration, every known individual has possessed bright red blood.

So John's blood is perfectly normal for his species, then. And his people doesn't seem to have a hemospectrum at all. You wonder what kind of place and what kind of primitive society he grew up in, but the of course the database doesn't have any of that kind of information.

The species is well suited for use as relievators, as they are easy to use and respond very well to the necessary treatments to maintain them. An average of 300 specimens are captured and delivered throughout the empire each sweep. The average predicted post-capture lifespan of a B20-413 relievator is around 3.4 sweeps.

Fuck. You know that can't be more than a tiny fraction of all the relievators used in the empire, but you never really thought about the numbers before. There are more than a thousand people currently alive out there in the same situation as John, just from his own species. It's a whole industry. Vriska understated the scale.

The species is sexually dimorphic, where the most significant difference is that only the female possess a nook, and only the male a bulge. Both sexes have a perfectly penetrable waste chute in addition to their genital configuration. The teeth are blunt enough that mouth and throat also are usable without modifications.  
The male's bulge is not retractable, but it is normally deflated, only inflating when active. Under the bulge is a very sensitive protruding sack for storing genetic material. Other sensitive parts include two lactation tips on the upper part of the chest, which exist on both sexes but are larger and even more sensitive on the female.

It goes on, but there doesn't seem to be anything else that you really want to know. It looks like there is some information on the most popular ways of fucking the species, the pros and cons of males and females, a list of ways to get certain reactions out of them, and so on and so forth. It's the kind of practical bullshit people would be looking for, and you didn't really expect better. At least you found out _some_ general stuff. 

To be honest, some of this sounds kind of... interesting... in theory. But all you can see in your mind's eye is John's very real, terrified face and shivering, battered body, and it's nauseating, not titillating. You think you have a headache.

You should get a porno tonight. Preferably a red one, with some perfectly concupiscent trolls penetrating each other lovingly and releasing obscene amounts of genetic material into a bucket. That's what genitals are _for_ , not dry-fucking caged aliens senseless. You're pretty sure nothing will get rid of the rotten taste in your mouth, but you probably need the reminder anyway.

* * *

It's not unusual for you to stay at your husktop during office recess. You consider being seen as a good worker _and_ keeping social interaction with people who would turn on you in a heartbeat if you cut your finger to a minimum to be a decent survival strategy. You can live without a caffeinated beverage and a daily dose of gossip, fuck-you-very-much. Still, the next day you do go to the recess block with the rest for once. For gossip, no less. 

You wouldn't, but you happen to overhear Liviet talking to Fandra and Tandak when they leave the office, and the topic of their conversation makes your bloodpusher skip a beat.

"Did you hear that Serath got fined for disfiguring the relievator?"

You might have flinched visibly, but you try to pretend you were just stretching at your desk.

"Who's Serath?" Fandra asks, which is not the part you jumped at.

"Oh, she's one of my corners. Kismesis' matesprit. But she—"

They're leaving, and you find yourself following to eavesdrop, because that is exactly how civilized you are. What the fuck did Liviet just say happened to John? 

"—trouble yesterday for going 'too far' with the stress relief. Even though it wasn't her fault at all, if you ask me!"

"Well," Tandak notes, "I used the relievator last night, and it was a bit of a mess. I did wonder about that. Do you know what happened?"

Liviet makes a grimace. "Apparently some fucker taught the relievator to say the word 'no'."

 _Shit._ Something happened, and it's your fault. Your blood is practically running cold and you're hardly breathing, but no one is paying any attention to you. You've reached the recess block and turned your back on the others to busy yourself with getting a cup, but you shouldn't be fumbling as much as you are.

"Really?" you hear Tandak say behind you. There are other people crowding the beverage table, but you manage to shuffle a bit to the side to hear better. "It didn't make any sounds anything like that with me."

"I should hope not! Serath said it drove her crazy! It was like—"

Liviet and Tandak are moving away to sit at a nearby table while Fandra picks up cups for the three of them. She scoffs at you impatiently for hogging the drink dispenser, but she doesn't say anything. You hurry up and get away, seating yourself at the next table, right behind Liviet's back. It's not that you _want_ to hear, but you _need_ to.

"—didn't start until she took out one of these long needles, you know, that you can use for that really narrow hole in the alien bulge? And the relievator made this really weird sound that apparently sounded just like ' _NO_ '.

"Ewww," Tandak says. You'd agree with him, but probably not for the same reason. That tool sounds gut-wrenchingly painful. You stare down at your beverage as if you're just waiting for it to cool, but inside you're boiling.

"Yeah, I know," Liviet continues. "So Serath elbows it in the guts, and then all it does is scream when she puts the needle in, so she thinks it must just have been some weird fluke. Except when she starts fucking its ass and squeezing its bulge and feeling pretty good, that's when it starts going all like ' _no—no—no—_ ' in between the normal sounds. And when she pauses it basically looks at her and goes ' _No~o_ '."

"Wow, that is so creepy!" Fandra says.

"I would have been pissed off like hell," Tandak adds.

"Yeah, and she was too. So she pulls out and sits on its chest and punches it like ten or fifteen times in the face, and _then_ she fucks its mouth while it's all bloody. So she got it to shut up! Do you really think it's fair she was fined for that?"

Tandak snorts. "I would have done the same. I think most sane people would!"

"Yeah, it's the one who made it repeat that word who should be fined," Fandra says. "I mean, who does that? Wasting relievator time making it mimic a word just to ruin the experience for the rest of us? That's perverted and disgusting."

"I know! But apparently no one knows who did it."

You're squeezing your cup too tight. If you actually crush it everyone is going to look at you, so you force yourself to take a sip, then a gulp. The beverage is hot and pretty flat and exactly what you need. Pull yourself together, Vantas. John got hurt worse because he tried to defend himself. That was _brave_. You're not going to regret teaching him the word just because it didn't work. No. Shut up. No regrets. 

If he could only speak properly – make them see that he wasn't just mimicking... But damn, you're not even sure about _that_. You force yourself to take another gulp of your drink.

"—bad is it?" you notice Fandra asking. "I mean, obviously she didn't kill it since you've been using it afterward, but she didn't crush the jaw or something, did she? That would suck."

"Its face was pretty swollen when I saw it," Tandak says. "Eyes clammed shut, nose crooked, one of those big front teeth missing, that sort of thing. I just used it from behind, though, so it didn't bother me that much."

"Aww. I really liked the way those teeth scraped along my bulge."

"Maintenance told Serath that they're fixing the nose, and the swelling will go away in a few days, but they can't do anything about the teeth," Liviet says. "Apparently she knocked out two of them, one of the big front ones and one a bit further to the side. They're not growing back, so that's the part she was fined for. But I still don't think she deserves it."

Enough of this bullshit. You finish the drink and head off to a load gaper. Perhaps some cold water can help suppress the urges for violence screaming in your throat. That, or repeatedly bashing your head against the wall. What the fuck are you trying to accomplish, anyway?

* * *

Your wiggler friends sit with you at dinner as usual, and you snap at them for pointing out how you're so wound up you're practically climbing the walls, as usual. You're feeling better than you did at recess, but not by much. The grilled sea mammal seems to taste like paper.

You hope that sooner or later they're going to give up on bothering you, but you don't have high hopes. Aradia and Tavros have just concluded that you need a moirail most of all, even more than you need concupiscent quadrants, though you need those, too.

"You need someone who can calm you down," Aradia says. "And someone you can trust with all the stuff you're stressing out about, since you're not talking to us about it!"

She's right. It's still not going to happen. You savagely attack your food with a knife.

"Face it, KK," Sollux says with a grimace, "You're not going to have any serendipitous encounters if you don't go out and spend time with people on your off shifts. I can't believe I even have to tell you that."

The fact is, you've already had a serendipitous encounter, and that one didn't help. "Whatever," you say. "Are you done schoolfeeding me for today or are you going to also teach me how to dress myself or how to clean up fecal accidents in the 'coon?"

"Well," Tavros says. "'Whatever', is probably a good way to put it, when you know that we're right, but you don't want to, uh, listen, for some reason, that none of us knows."

Aradia sighs deeply and Sollux gives her an affectionate pap.

"Whatever," you say again. "Time to stop rehashing my obviously non-existent issues and talk about something else." You've been thinking about asking them about this for two days already, but what you heard today gives you a current-event excuse. You've got to use it while you can. "I heard that someone beat up the relievator enough to get fined because it seemed to be saying a word." You try to sound casual about it. "And then I had this fucked up thought... What would happen if there was a relievator who actually _could_ talk? What do you think people would do?"

"I heard about that, also," Tavros says, "But it wasn't talking, just mimicking a sound, probably, which is weird, but not _that_ weird."

"Yes, and it's a bit odd that no one before or since has heard it say anything like a word," Aradia says. "It could be the one who was fined just made it up too seem less guilty!"

"I think they're paranoid and that sound was imaginary," Sollux offers.

"Like Rufio," Tavros adds helpfully with a wry smile.

"Right, fine," you agree. "But I'm thinking _what if_. If there was some random relievator, and then it turns out it it can actually talk and think like a troll, would you still use it?"

"Come on," Sollux complains. "This is like the third time you've made some gross comment about comparing trolls to relievator aliens, and it's not as intriguing as you seem to think it is."

"It's a weird idea!" Aradia says. "Even just as a thought experiment."

"I think," Tavros says slowly, "Even though it's hard to wrap your pan around, that I wouldn't, use it. Because that would be, very very, uncomfortable. Relievators are practical, because they have bodies, a little bit similar to ours, but they're nothing like us at all. And I don't like to think about, uh, an alien stress relief thing, talking to me, in real words." He grimaces.

"Yeah, that's why that person freaked out so hard over one word," Sollux says. "It would be creepy as fuck. Even if they imagined it."

"I wouldn't use it either," Aradia decides. "Not if it was actually _talking_ to me like a real person." She shudders. "Now that I'm thinking about it, it wouldn't just be uncomfortable and creepy, it would be completely terrifying! Almost like if the food you were about to eat started talking – it's the kind of thing you _don't_ want to happen."

You nod, only slightly relieved. "That's what I thought, too."

"Seriously," Sollux says. "This is dumb, KK. Aliens don't talk. It couldn't be a relievator if it talks back at you, it would be a freak." He looks down and actually seems to think on it. "If one did talk, that'd be some kind of mistake, and that'd be embarrassing for everyone. I think it'd be culled immediately to fix it. So yeah." He shrugs.


	8. Chapter 8

You are fretting. You could have some dignity and call it pacing your respiteblock in agitation, but frankly, you are fretting and there's nothing else to it. Your time slot with John is a couple of hours after you'd normally go to sleep – not that you're sleeping well lately anyway – which today means that you're the last person before John's rest shift. His rest hours rotate slowly over the days and nights so that all the crew shifts get equal opportunity or some horseshit like that. The good part about this timing is that you won't have to hand him over directly to someone else afterwards. The bad part is _waiting_.

You've tried again to convince yourself to do the safe thing and forget about John. Stay out of the relievator block and you'll neither risk getting yourself into trouble nor let John hold any fantasies of personhood or self-respect to be additionally punished for. It's perfectly reasonable and John would never see a friendly face again in his life, which is how the empire wants it.

You've considered doing the merciful thing, too. Bring a knife and cut John's throat today, and you'll spare him any more suffering at all. It would be decent and simple and permanent and also utter suicide. Deliberate sabotage of imperial property is the same as treason, so unless you could make it look like an accident you'd be sent straight to the culling fork. And even if you could, the fines for overusing an almost new relievator to the point of death has to be far beyond what you can pay, and there's no way corporal punishment wouldn't get involved. Hello, mutant blood.

In conclusion you're both a fool and a coward and certainly not worth the precious air you're breathing, but you can't bring yourself to do either. That leaves doing what you're already doing and pretend you're not playing around in the deep end of the mudslime like a newly wriggled child with a negligent lusus. Fuck, you're in so deep you can hardly see the the surface, and it's barely been two weeks.

One Meadra Yreall is using John right now. Then it'll be Tomaph Sallen, then Ansred Farcen. The last one is a guy you know vaguely, a same-brood friend of Tavros's from down in biongineering. You'll only get to see John after Ansred's turn, and this is _perfectly fine_. You barely even feel sick anymore; there's a smoldering mass of guilt and fear and disgust and more guilt lodged in your guts, but you can ignore it.

When the time finally comes you somehow still manage to be a minute late to the relievator block. You suppose it's just as well, if it means you won't have to face yet another grinning bulgemuncher who just got done pleasuring themselves on a helpless guy in a locked room and assumes you're going to do the same. You're alone by the door, and it lets you in smoothly when you identify yourself.

You barely get one step inside before you choke on your own breath and freeze.

John is standing up, his chest pressed against the right-side wall of the block. His hands are flat against the wall on either side of his head, and his face is turned away from you. Most noticeably, his legs are parted and Ansred Farcen is bulge deep inside him from behind. 

Ansred doesn't even notice you, too busy growling contentedly as he keeps thrusting his bulge violently into John's ass, his body squeezing John's against the wall like a piece of rubber. John is whimpering in pain for every movement, but you doubt the guy cares. The block smells thickly of sweat.

Freezing up is a conditioned survival reflex to you: _don't make a scene and draw attention to yourself_. But it doesn't take many seconds for you to realize that Ansred is the one who shouldn't be here – he's overstaying his allotted time. For once you have the legal right to rage, and _fuck_ , you'll use it.

"What in the almighty name of the mothergrubs's giant maw do you think you're doing?" you shout, grabbing Ansred by the waist and tearing him bodily away from John. There's a sick _smap_ sound when his bulge rips out of John's chute, and then you push him aside, making him stumble to get his balance back. "You fucking spawn of a shitstain on a misused filial pail, go find your think pan before your bulge falls off and hordes of starving orphans picks it up to get poisoned by the sheer living rot!" It feels amazing to let go. You hardly know what you're shouting, only that it's grossly inappropriate and filled with all the anger you can't let loose against the whole perverted relievator system. This is just one user, but right now you wish he was every single one of them.

"What the fuck—" Ansred looks confused by the sudden assault. "I was just about to—" He makes a move back towards John.

You punch him. You shouldn't – if he punches back and draws blood, you're lost – but it feels like the best thing you've ever done. He stumbles back, both in shock and pain, and you keep shouting. "Are you a troll or are you a walking bulge with nooks for eyes and the fucking appetite of a longear hopbeast in heat? No, if you were the latter you'd be sticking it in your concupiscent mates and not rubbing yourself wantonly on everything with a hole and showing no discernible ability to press pause and return to normal functions. Go fondle your shame globes and suck your own bulge, but _get out of here_!"

"Shit," he says eloquently, wiping away the stain of light brown blood from where you split his lip. He's staring at you in disbelief. "Can I get your moirail? Because this is _not_ healthy, dude."

"Go fuck your own nook with a lightbulb. Get out!"

"Look, I just forgot about the time! I'm sorry? I was listening to Metrollica—" he removes a small eargrub from his left hear tube and shows you "—and I didn't even hear the signal! I'm leaving now, there's no need to rip me a new one, okay?" His bulge has sheathed itself, and he quickly zips his pants up, grimacing. "I didn't mean to overstay, sheesh. Please don't call security."

You almost punch him again, but he runs off and is gone. You feel hot, shaking with rage, but _good_. You've successfully dealt with insufferable bullshit. The rage turns into a shudder as you turn back to John.

He's is still standing there, pressed against the wall. Like he's not going to bother to move until he knows if someone else wants him in this position, too. He's turned his head to press his forehead against the wall instead of his cheek, but his face is still mostly covered by his tangled mop of black hair. You can hear him breathing hard in the sudden silence.

"John."

There's a twitch and a weird little sound of recognition, but he doesn't move.

Fuck, is that a trickle of blood down the inside of his thigh? Of course it is, and not from a cut, either. John's asshole is bleeding. It's a goddamn _alien waste chute_ ; it's not meant to take a billion troll bulges every fucking day, and it's been almost a perigree since John was captured. You frankly can't see how the database could claim that John's people usually survive over three sweeps like this. You're cringing, almost wishing you had beaten up Ansred more, though that would hardly have helped anyone. You want to scream, but even more than that you want to _do something_.

"John," you say again, as calmly as you can, while getting the blanket from your bag and holding it out to him. "It's me, Karkat. Remember me, I'm the shitbucket who tries not to hurt you."

Another small sound, and then a thin whisper. "Karkat."

"Yes."

John turns around slightly, only enough to reach out towards you and grab the blanket from your hand. At least he trusts you on that this time, because he doesn't hesitate or seem to doubt that you'll let him have it. He just takes it and wraps it around his shoulders without a word. His shoulders shake in a silent sob.

This is actually the first time you've seen John standing up, and you suddenly realize that he is tall. The fact that he's constantly helpless and cowed makes him seem so small, but he's actually much taller than you even when standing as awkwardly as he is, and he'd probably be at least a whole head above you if he was standing straight. There's a painful image in your mind of John the way he must have been before your people captured him – standing tall, laughing, dressed in real clothes while walking around and talking to other people like him – but you know very well that that John is gone for good. You might as well wish for rich purple blood in your own veins. 

John takes a deep breath and eases himself down to sit on his knees, though he's obviously gnashing his teeth against the pain when he does it. He leans his left side against the wall and seems to make an attempt to relax inside the blanket, looking at the floor and not at you.

You take his cue and sit down as well, facing him at two armlengths' distance. John glances at your face, but he still doesn't try to say anything.

His face looks terrible, just like you heard. There are blue-ish swollen bruises around both eyes, his eyelids still bloated enough that his red-stained eyes can only open partly. His chin and cheekbones have bulging bruises as well, and even though his mouth isn't bleeding, his lips are chafed and broken in a lot of places. His nose is the right shape, but there's a thin metal cover fastened with small screws to keep it that way.

"Fuck. I didn't—" You don't even know what to say. That beating was all your fault. "I'm sorry. I know there's no fucking point in telling you that when I can't make it up to you, but I am." You swallow. "I should have tried to warn you, but frankly I didn't realize myself that people were going to react like _that_." 

You pause, but of course he doesn't understand you, and he's still silent. His gaze is fixed on your knees, and the little shudders that run through him are almost imperceptible. You can't tell what he's thinking.

"John, I—"

He opens his mouth like he's talking. You can see the gaping hole in the upper row of his front teeth, but you can't hear if he's saying anything.

"What?" You frown.

The whisper is audible this time, but it's alien speech. It ends with a weak "Karkat."

"Yeah," you say with a small grimace, "I still don't understand you, either." The longing to be able to _listen_ to him and not just hear his sounds is almost as achingly strong as the urge to hold him and protect him from everything. And only slightly more realistic.

"Do you even want to learn troll words anymore?" Maybe it's idiotic and selfish that you still want him to. You couldn't really blame him if he decided to shut up and never say another word, which frankly seems very close to what he's doing right now. And yes, teaching him might be risky for yourself, too. But you still believe it would be worth it for both of you, just to be able to have some kind of fucked-up cross-species feelings jam at least once. Besides, there was something close to _life_ in John's eyes four days ago when he was totally focused on the words, and you want to see that life again.

You can imagine a lot of worse endings for him than being quietly culled for embarrassing the empire, too.

"John?" 

He glances up at your face once more, then looks down again. You're not sure if he is frightened or just resigned behind all those bruises. He's not crying now, just looking at nothing and shuddering slightly now and again, his broken lips trembling.

You want to hug him and shoosh all the broken pieces back together, as if that was a thing that people could do. "Hey," you say instead. "I brought you some food." You rummage through your bag again and take out some of the other things you packed it with – a palm-sized roasted grubbun, only slightly squished, and a bottle of cold melonade.

You have no idea what they feed him and how much, but he is definitely weak and skinny and you would guess he gets somewhere above starvation level but well below comfort. The way his bruised eyes widen at the sight of the large piece of staple food in your hand pretty much confirms it. He stares, but he doesn't move even when you hold the bun out towards him. 

"Take it," you urge him. "It's food. _Food_."

"Karkat?" he whispers slowly. Maybe even suspiciously.

"Yes." You put the bun down on a napkin on the floor and put the bottle next to it. "Go ahead, eat. You're hungry, aren't you?" You mime bringing something to your mouth and chewing it.

John closes his eyes and breathes deeply, only hitching a little bit. After he opens his eyes again he shrugs one arm out of the blanket, glances at you as if to see that it's really okay, then reaches out to take the bottle. The first thing he does isn't to open it, but to bring it back with a slightly shaky hand and put it against his face.

It seems strange to you, but perhaps a cold bottle feels nice to him against swollen bruises. You'll have to remember that. He does seem to relax a bit more, especially when he moves it back and forth to different parts of his face. Finally he shudders again and puts it down in his lap to unscrew it. The blanket slips down to sit wrapped around his waist, but he ignores it long enough to get the bottle open and drink some before he pulls it back up over his shoulders.

"It's a 'drink'," you tell him, pointing at the bottle, though he doesn't repeat this word either.

Finally he takes the grubbun and bites into it. Once he does it's like he can't stop himself from practically gulping it down, like he hasn't had anything that good for – well, a perigree? He takes another deep swig from the bottle and puts it down on the floor, hugging himself under the blanket.

"Do you feel any better?" It's stupid to ask, but you've already concluded that you're a delusional idiot.

John says some alien word, and then his shoulders start shaking violently. There's drops of watery tears on his face again, though he quickly wipes them off on the blanket. It seems to be more something that he can't control than him being genuinely upset, though, and once he gets the shaking under control he surprisingly flashes his remaining front teeth in some kind of quick half-smile. He's finally meeting your eyes.

"Can I take that as a yes?" 

"Yes? Yes." John's voice is still just a whisper, but this time he's talking directly to you. It makes something inside you feel warm.

He still looks horrible, his face swollen and battered and the rest of him carefully hidden away under the blanket while he makes himself as small as possible. There's nothing you can do about it, no matter how much you want to, and that fact still feels like a slap every single time you realize it. But he does seem... calmer? A bit more stable? Perhaps a little bit closer to the real person he is. As if you _are_ making a difference to him, no matter how small. 

"Hey, John," you say. "I'd really like to be able to talk to you, but..." You hesitate. "I guess this is where I ask you if you're up to learning more troll words, except the problem is that I can't very well ask you without using troll words, so that's a fucking stick in the rolling contraption right there." You grimace. "How about this?" You point up. "Ceiling?"

John's eyes follow your finger upwards. He's silent for several seconds, and you're almost convinced he's given up and don't want to do this. You can understand that. You have no idea what it would take to actually learn a whole alien language, but he's exhausted and in pain and trying to use troll words a couple of days ago didn't work out well for him. Maybe you should just sit here and be silent at each other and it'll be enough that you're someone who won't _use_ him.

"Yes," John says eventually, looking straight at you with a decisive nod. "Yes, seelin." This time his voice rise to almost normal levels.

Shit, you're pretty sure you just smiled. Apparently he can make you do that. "That's right!"

"Yes." He pauses, then points down. "Flooa." He points at the door. "Dooa." He points at the blanket and thinks for a second. "Ban-kett?"

"B _l_ anket," you correct him, "but yes."

"Yes, blankett." He points at the table. "Tey-bull. Dats rayt?"

"Yes! Great! You do remember." He starts to frown, maybe thinking about how to proceed from there, but you have ideas about that, so you go ahead and show him your bag again. "This is a bag," you explain. " _Bag._ "

"Bag." John nods. "Bag bag bag. Blanket? No, bag. Yes." He doesn't sound as excited as last time, but he does sound determined to remember every single crumb of language.

"Yes. And _in_ the bag..." You put your hand in it.

" _In_ bag...?"

"In the bag I have some more stuff." As a matter of fact, you've put some thought to the problem of how to show things that aren't in the relievator block to him. You came to the conclusion that pictures would be useful, and for that, you found a few comic books in your storage enclosure. You show John the two books you brought – it's one issue from the middle of a long-running romance series and one more episodic action-adventure story. 

John blinks, then says something in his alien language. He sounds surprised, but you're not sure by what, exactly. When you put the comic books down on the floor he gingerly takes the adventure one and very carefully flips through it, looking half amazed and half disbelieving. Finally he looks up and asks you an undecipherable question.

"Comics," you reply, though maybe that wasn't exactly what he asked. He does repeat the word, though. "Coomix. In bag, coomix."

One problem about this is that you're going to have to sit next to each other to look at the pictures together. John flinches when you shuffle closer, then practically goes limp, almost dropping the blanket altogether. It's like he reflexively expects you to use his body just because you come closer, and he knows he can't fight it. You can hear his breath tremble. Shit.

You make a shooshing sound at him, but he doesn't pull himself together until after you've settled down in a new position and shown that you're not going to touch him. He gives you a weird look, but he doesn't say anything before turning his attention back to the pictures in the comic book.

You start off by showing him that you yourself and all the characters in the book are "trolls". That seems like a good place to start. John gets it, then tells you that his own species call themselves "hyo-man", which sounds a fuckton better than B20-413, and not much harder to remember, either.

It turns out that there are more words to explain than you thought there would be just in a single picture. There are faces, facial expressions, the landscape in the background, the sky, and more. John gets that focused look again, like he's almost managing to forget where he is by concentrating on one single thing that doesn't hurt him. Maybe that in itself makes it worth doing this, and maybe it'd be the same if you tried to play card games with him, but this way feels like you've started on a project together, and that's even better. Teaching words to someone who doesn't know _anything_ is not an activity you could ever have imagined, but it's... kind of nice.

There's a wide sky with stars and moons in the background of on the first page, and John is repeating those words when he suddenly stops dead.

"Staas and m—" His face scrunches up in pain, and the next moment there's a spasm going though him. You have no idea what just happened, but it's so sudden that it scares you, and you have no idea what to do. You glance at the door, but it doesn't seem like anyone is rushing in to disturb you.

John gasps and makes a weird hulking sound that is probably not a word. The blanket falls off him and he doesn't even seem to care as he throws himself across the floor on hands and knees towards the water tap. He bends over the drain on the floor and pukes.

Wormfucking shit, that was the grubbun you gave him. You just somehow assumed that basic foodstuffs like a grubbun would be alright, but what if it was _poisonous_ to him? How the hell could you think it was a good idea to give him food when you have absolutely no clue about what his people eat or what he has been fed since he was captured or _anything_? You're such a fuckwad that it almost feels like you want to throw up too, but instead you pick up the blanket and hurry over to him.

He's coughing, and you can't even tell if he's still spasming or just sobbing, but both would be your fault. He's turned on the tap, and there's lukewarm water sloshing away the vomit into the drain. It doesn't look or smell like he threw up blood, at least.

"John, I'm sorry. I didn't think—"

He cuts you off. "No." He cups his shaking hands to get water to rinse his mouth before saying anything else.

"Are you alright?" Stupid fucking question. Maybe you should stand back, but you're holding the blanket and you know he wants it. It seems right to spread it gently over his back, though you take care not to touch him yourself.

He twitches slightly, but then he sighs unsteadily and relaxes a little. "Good," he says. "Great, good. Yes." He turns the tap off, shuffles backwards a bit and pulls the blanket tight around himself again.

He may be claiming that he's alright, but you feel horrible for causing him pain – _more_ pain – when you just tried to make him feel better. "I'm sorry," you repeat. "It was the food. The fucking basic unspecial grubbun. I didn't know it would do that."

John coughs again, looking down at his own lap. "Food..." he whispers, pausing like he's trying to think of words to use. "Food, good. Not food, not good. Karkat, good."

You think you understand what he's saying – he was hungry, and eating that bun was worth it even though it didn't stay down. You're not sure what you feel about that. It sickens you with cold, hard guilt that he was – _is_ – that hungry. You should try to bring him something else, but you don't know what he can eat, and what if whatever you bring is even worse for him? At the same time, the mere fact that he just communicated something by talking to you makes you feel ridiculously elated.

"Thanks," you tell him simply. "I'll try to come up with some better food for you next time but I wish I knew what you usually eat. Well, you don't understand the question, so that's okay. You do eat, right? They have to be feeding you something." You sigh.

"Karkat?"

"Yes?"

He frowns in concentration. "Karkat... not walk in door," is what he comes up with.

He doesn't want you to leave him. You check your watch – your time is almost over, and you guess you already knew that. Forty-five minutes is a fart in space, no time at all. "I don't _want_ to leave you," you tell him, though you don't think he understands those words yet. You wonder what happens when this time slot is over, since it's the last one before John's rest shift. If there is any way you could fudge it and stay with him, at least a while. It feels like you're overflowing with diamonds, but their points are stabbing you for not taking care of your moirail – even though he's _not_ your moirail, and he can't be.

"I want to get you out of here," you admit. "I want to go out the door _with_ you."

You don't think he got the meaning. He sits silently and watches you through bruised eyes.

On inspiration you hold out your hand, loosely open with palm up, in his direction.

John looks confused, but not very scared. Then he seems to get it, and apparently he's okay with it as long as it's on his own terms. He quietly slips one arm out from the blanket around him and puts his hand in yours. You didn't think it was possible to feel so happy and so horrible at the same time. You also didn't think it was possible to feel so utterly pale when neither you or the other person is trying to rage.

He squeezes your hand slightly, and it's like _he's_ comforting _you_. Or else he's trying to draw strength. You squeeze back.

The signal that means time is up buzzes, and you want to cry.


	9. Chapter 9

John flinches when he hears the signal, and his hand goes limp as if he expects you to leave immediately. Leaving is the absolute last thing you want to do, but he's right, of course. You will, no matter how much you despise yourself for it.

You glance at the door. It's still closed; the two of you are still alone. For all you know it could remain that way for hours. But you have to assume that sooner or later some kind of janitor is going to show up for _maintenance_ , and if they catch you red-handed with a long overstay you can't imagine any way you wouldn't be banned from the relievator block for the foreseeable future.

Damn it. Five more minutes. Five more minutes will be fine.

"John?" You squeeze his hand again, and it makes him raise his head to meet your eyes. His face is stiff under the bruises and you can feel his hand tremble, but he doesn't say anything.

"John, I know this sucks a centaur's shame globes, but I don't have any fucking choice in this matter. I mean, I _have_ to go—" you point at the exit "—through the door." This is something you need to explain, and no, your voice isn't fucking _hitching_. "But I'm going to come back." You turn your hand around to point back into the block. He's staring at you with no sign of comprehension, so you repeat the gesture. "Go—come back."

John seems to make an effort to take a deep breath, but it breaks in the middle. "Yes?" he whispers, holding your hand just a fraction tighter.

"Go and come back," you repeat and gesture with your free hand again. It's just another piece of verbal schoolfeeding, and you think he gets it this time.

" _Go_ and _cambak_ ," he whispers back. "Karkat go. Karkat cambak. In door." He pauses with a weak shudder. "Trolls—" He pauses and seems to search for words he doesn't have. "—trolls go and cambak. Trolls, trolls." His shoulders are shaking again. "Fakinsori."

Fuck, you can't do this. You're already making a soothing noise in your throat again, and now both of your hands are gently holding the one he gave you. "Yeah," you manage. "I'm fucking sorry." You need two deep breaths before you can go on. "I'll come back in _seven_ days."

John takes his hand back, but he's still looking at you. 

"Listen, John." You assume he's able to count; all you have to do is to tell him the fucking numbers. Except seven days is too grubmunching long – you hate yourself for being unable to see him sooner, but you have to tell him as it is. You put your suddenly empty hand on the floor and move one finger at a time. "One—Two—Three—Four—Five." Then the other hand. "Six—Seven."

"Se-bun." He counts his own fingers as if to tell you he understands, but then he goes on in his alien language and adds a question. Your guess is that he wonders about seven _what_ , exactly.

"Seven days," you repeat, trying to think of a way to explain it. "Well, seven nights and days. Which doesn't really mean a fucking thing aboard a spaceship, but... Wait." You get up and go get the comic books, putting the empty bottle and napkin back in your bag while you're at it. 

John watches you without moving while you sit down again. You throw another wary glance at the door, but there's still no one opening it. Yet.

Flipping to a certain page in the romance comic, you hold it out to show John. "Look, here." The frame you're pointing at shows the young blueblood protagonist falling asleep in a tool pile after a nice feelings jam with her moirail, and no, you're not thinking about moirallegiance at all, only the illustration. "She's sleeping," you explain to John. " _Sleep._ " You empathize by miming resting your head on your hands.

He frowns at you. "Sleep?" he repeats uncertainly. "Sl-sleep. Sleep." His voice is unsteady, but his face is hard and he's obviously still determined to learn.

"I'll _come back_ after _seven sleep_ shifts."

John swallows. "Cambak in seven sleeps. Dats right, Karkat?" 

At first you almost think he says 'sweeps', which would be beyond horrible, but he wouldn't be able to know that word yet. He's making up words – but that's fine as long as you do get each other's meaning. "Yes," you confirm. "Seven sleeps, I guess."

John bows his head. "Yes, good." He's barely breathing, but despite that he makes himself drop the blanket without even being prompted.

It's easier this way for both of you – of course it is – but it still stings that he's so resigned. He knows exactly how helpless he is, and you're just as helpless to change it. You make yourself pick the blanket up and stuff it down your bag before you get on your feet.

"I'll come back," you promise again, then hurry for the door before you decide it's worth the risk to stay longer.

The door opens in front of your eyes the moment before you touch the lock.

You start, your blood pusher practically stopping dead in your ribcage. Your mind is full of colorful curses and your mouth full of apologies before you even _see_ the person on the other side. It doesn't matter who it is – you've fucked up. _You've fucked up._. Your blood pusher is beating your mutant liquid around your body with wild abandon.

It turns out to be an old rustblood man you've never met, face worn and lined, horns long and snarled, carrying a wicker basket. And rolling his eyes at you. You shut up, torn between glaring a desperate challenge and humbly bowing your head.

"Don't work yourself up, kid," he says with a shrug. "It's hardly the first time I find someone in here a few minutes after the last time slot. No harm done, just leave and don't make any trouble for me and I'm not going to press any alarms on you."

"Oh." It comes out as a ridiculous sigh of relief. "Thanks. Well." It takes a moment to start breathing again, and then you realize that – fuck you – you're still standing squarely in his way inside the relievator block. You can feel John watching you from behind. You force yourself to step aside, letting the old man in, but you can't quite manage to slip out behind him as you should. 

"Wait," you hear yourself say instead. The door closes quietly beside you.

"What's the matter?" The janitor turns back and raises an eyebrow at you, then grins. "Oh, you're one of the new kids, aren't you? Enlisted this very season, right?" 

"Yes, and you are the janitor who comes here for relievator maintenance every fucking day." He's smiling, so he's not completely averse to talking to you. Which means that yes, you're going to see this idiotic impulse through. There are snakes in your guts trying to warn you about attention and being remembered for something weird, but you don't care right now. You're not doing anything illegal.

"Guilty as charged, kid. Though technically I only have the post-activity maintenance duty, since there's another guy on pre-activity, but hey. Name's Yaster Bescot."

"Karkat Vantas."

"And I bet this is your very first relievator, am I right?" He doesn't wait for you to answer, but goes right on. "Look, I'm not the right person to go to for usage tips on this one, kid – I'm too stiff these days for the real fanciful stuff the half-wigglers your age get up to." He gesticulates with his fingers too close to your face. "I usually just let it suck me. It's got a really nice tongue, you know. Have you tried it – I mean, not moving any and just let it work on you?"

You force the little surge of bile in your throat down. That was too much information, but nothing you wouldn't expect. You wouldn't be surprised if he uses the maintenance time for this, too, and it's probably not even illegal. "No," you say. "And that's not what I'm trying to ask at all. I'm just curious about what h— _it_ can eat." Your eyes flicker to John, but he looks tense as a sprained tendon and doesn't meet your eyes.

Bescot rolls his eyes at you for the second time. "Oh, hell. You tried to make it eat something, didn't you? I keep saying we have to add an official rule against that, but that's up to the captain, and she always has so many more important things to do than paying attention to the advice of an old rust janitor." He sighs theatrically.

"I bet she does." You decide against asking why someone else tried to give John something to eat. You seriously doubt it was out of pity.

"What happened, kid? Did it throw up?"

"Yes." No point in denying it.

"Alright, good." He smiles. "No damage done, then. Just as long as you remember not to do it again."

"And why not?" You cross your arms over your chest. "If throwing up is the _good_ result, then what the fuck _does_ it eat?"

"This stuff." Bescot picks up one of the soft plastic bottles from the basket and throws it from one hand to the other. "It's a kind of gruel, one bottle per night, easy and practical. And _no_ , I can't hand any out to people for playing with. That's the thing; the nourishment is very carefully measured—by someone who knows their xenobiology better than I do—"

"It's that important to get the nourishment _exactly_ right?" you interrupt. That sounds like hoofbeastshit to you. Or rather, it sounds like the empire wants to keep its relievators half-starved, and this guy isn't going to start telling you what's _in_ that gruel so that you could do anything about it. You resist the urge to gnash your teeth, but only barely.

"Well, that too," Bescot says. "But that's not the most important part. You can't have been using the relievator's waste chute and not noticed that there's never any _waste_ in it?" His grin grows bigger.

You... You suppose you never thought about that. _Fucking shit_ , potentially literally. John doesn't have any scheduled load gaper breaks. You find yourself shuddering with new horror.

"See, its metabolism is measured," Bescot goes on, "And that's why it's important not to feed it too much. It drops a load once near the end of every status recovery shift, and that's it. If people start feeding it unmeasured amounts of extra fodder this whole cycle could get messed up, and that wouldn't be fun for anyone. So, that's what I mean, kid; don't do it again."

"I see." You don't know what else to say. "Fine, that makes sense." It _does_ , but it's the kind of sense that makes you wish you hadn't asked. You're not going to get away with feeding John, even if you do figure out what kind of nourishment he would accept.

"Yeah, you're an intelligent kid."

John is just a few feet away, but it seems to be billions of jagged light-sweeps. He's lying down now, eyes closed as he curls up naked on the floor, but he's got to be listening and wondering what you're saying. You hate yourself with renewed fury for just standing here talking.

"Of course the fuck I am. Anyway—" You hesitate, you're going to take your chances. "I noticed that it is bleeding from the ass. Isn't that extremely taintchafing _inconvenient_? Infection alone could—"

"Pfft." The janitor chuckles again. "Bleeding only happens _all the time_. I take it you've never used the relievator near the end of the activity shift before? I mean, of course my colleague greases the asshole before the beginning of the shift, and it's good quality grease, but it does wear off eventually – and this relievator is still new and not as adapted to us as it's going to be in a a few perigrees."

_You're not going to punch him you're not going to punch him you'renotgoingtopunchhim_

"Anyway, it heals up fine during recovery," Bescot continues. "I rub in this medislime for inside tears in the chute," he points to another of the bottles in his basket, "And then there's this medislime for any outside cuts." He touches the last bottle. "So no, we do actually take take care of our things, even if some users are really hamhanded. Of course, if there's some real damage going on the collar sends a signal to both us and security, so there's that, too."

"The collar?" What the fuck; you really, truly, pathetically know nothing about anything. "What the hell does that do besides look annoying?"

Bescot shrugs. "I'm no expert on that, but it does monitor the nervous system. There's these biolectronical cords going in here," he knocks on the back of his own neck to illustrate. "Like I said, it gives a signal when there's some major disruption going on."

You have to resist biting your tongue. "And that's it?" you ask instead.

"I've been told it also gives the relievator this tiny little shock straight to the brain once in a while, but that's just to keep it alert. Apparently once upon a time before that was implemented relievators had to be replaced a lot more often because we couldn't keep them from going completely catatonic, and once that happens you might as well use a plastic doll. That was way before my time, but I imagine it wouldn't work as stress relief if it doesn't react at all, would it?"

You nod mutely before you speak. You're actually surprised with how dry you're making yourself sound. "You turn that function off for 'status recovery', right? It wouldn't recover much if it can't sleep."

"That's true, and yeah, we do. I don't know how well it sleeps anyway, but I guess it's enough, even though one of our guys at cleaintenance keeps suggesting we should drug it to sleep to make it rest more effectively. But the thing is, sleeping potions aren't standard maintenance equipment for this species, so it'd be expensive. And good luck convincing the captain of giving us the funds for that!"

You feel your eyes widen. That's an opening. A possibility. "I can think of a much cheaper way to make it rest better," you say in an even tone – because what if you could actually give John something? If Bescot actually _wants_ John to sleep well, why _wouldn't_ he listen to you? You barely dare hope, but somehow you still do.

"Yeah, sure, we could beat it on the head or strangle it, but—"

" _NO!_ " Fuck, you just raised your voice, why the hell would you do that? You take a deep breath while the janitor gives you an odd look. "No, it's much simpler. Hell, you can't damage something to make it recover, that's idiotic." You snort, trying to brush it off before making your proposition. "Try giving it a blanket."

Bescot frowns. "A blanket?"

"Yeah." Your guts are trying to tie themselves into ribbons, but it's a completely legal and sensible suggestion, even from his perspective. "I've heard a lot of aliens sleep better with a blanket." So would a troll who was imprisoned as a naked sex toy, but you don't add that. "It's some instinctive thing."

"Huh." Bescot makes a thoughtful grimace. "I never heard anything like that, but what the hell, I'll suggest that to the team. If it works they might finally shut up about requesting those drugs."

Shit. He actually accepted your suggestion. Perhaps you made something a fraction better for John, just like that. "Yeah, do that," you tell him with a casualness you don't feel. "I guess I should let you go on with your work, and I'm off to my 'coon. I'm in the middle of my own rest shift." That's completely true, though you feel too fucking— _everything_ —to be tired. "Thanks for talking to me."

"Thank you for the talk too, kid. Remember what I said, okay? Don't feed the relievator and don't worry about small wounds." Bescot opens the door for you and waves you off before he turns back towards John.

"I'll come back," you say as the door closes. It's innocent enough; it doesn't matter if Bescot hears it. You can only hope that John does, too.

Five minutes later you have a brilliant, crazy idea. It's elegant in its simplicity, no overly high risk for bloodletting, and not actually impossible. You can't _save_ John, but perhaps you can do more than you believed. 

* * *

You find Yaster Bescot again in the cleaintenance recess block two days later.

Yes, this is a long shot and yes, you're aware of that. And you're much too fucking focused to be nervous, definitely. What you're trying to do would be utterly impossible through official channels – it's technically 'not done' – but you know this sort of thing happens under the table all the time, and the superiors don't care as long as the work gets done. That's why the plan is simple. All you have to do is persuade – bribe – this one guy. 

There are a couple of other janitors in the block, so you ask Bescot in a reasonably polite manner to come with you into the adjacent and currently empty food preparation block for a private conversation.

"Sure, I don't mind," he says with a shrug, following you. You're not claiming to be highblooded enough to have any kind of cull-with-impunity rights, and his colleagues see him leave with you, so it's not like he has anything to fear. He does look bemused, but you keep a stony face until you're sure the two of you are alone.

He speaks first. "So what do you want, kid? Karket, was it?"

"Kar _kat_ ," you correct him. "And I want to negotiate an arrangement with you."

"Is that what you new kids call it?" Bescot grins wickedly. "Your eyes are filled with hearts at the sight of wrinkles, are they?" His sharp teeth look much newer than the dry skin on his face. "Or is it spades you see? Tell me more, kid."

You growl. "Yes, because I have 'quadrantless miser' written all over my face and am ready to settle for any grubfucking old shitmonger who ineptly tries to flirt with me, absolutely!" He's probably not serious, but it's a sore spot. It doesn't matter; you did not come here because you wanted to enjoy his company.

"Uh-huh." He chuckles, then purses his lips. "Wait, you're the kid with the blanket suggestion? It might actually be working, so thanks for that one. Of course, it's hard to tell just yet, but we've left a blanket with the relievator during the last two recovery shifts, and it was actually asleep when Mallin came to prepare it before today's activity. Good sign, that."

You find yourself relaxing slightly in spite of yourself. They did give John a blanket to sleep in. Because you asked them to. It's such a minuscule, tiny thing that it shouldn't even deserve rejoicing, but god, it's _something_. "You're welcome," you manage flatly.

There's no reason to beat around the proverbial troll-height multi-stemmed foliage. "Let's get to the point," you say. "I want to know how much I'd have to give you to take over your relievator maintenance duty."

Bescot blinks, then starts laughing.

 _Fuck._ "What the slimelicking hell is so funny?" Hopefully the flush in your cheeks isn't strong enough to reveal any particular color, but laughter is not a good response and you're both embarrassed and pissed off. "It's strictly off the record, and I only want that particular job. You'd still get full pay for it. I just want it because the xeno—"

" _Of course_ I get why you want it," Bescot interrups, stopping your excuses, still chuckling. "You heard me talk a couple of days ago and decided you could do it too, right? With all the extra benefits that come with it? Problem is, what the hell makes you think I'd want to trade it away? I've been a janitor my whole life, and having some access to a relievator every single day is the best duty I've ever had. Why would I want to give that up just because some kid I barely know is overly fond of letting himself loose on an alien? I'd say I deserve the stress relief better than—"

You raise your voice to cut him off. " _How. Much?_ " You're not particularly surprised to confirm that he spends part of the maintenance time using John, but it still makes you seethe. At least it gives you a plausible excuse for wanting this, and right now you're prepared to pay what it takes.

Bescot snorts, then smiles and names a sum. It's obvious that he knows very well how impossible it would be for a newly enlisted lowblood to own that kind of money, but you decide that the fact that he mentions troll caegars at all is encouraging. You don't know if he expects you to haggle or to give up, but the latter isn't going to happen.

"Great," you say. "Back in the real world, how about this?" The sum you counter with is much lower, but it's pretty much all of your remaining wiggler savings plus most of what remains from the two paychecks you've gotten so far aboard the Excess. No new equipment, no new clothes, and not much entertainment for you next port call, but it's more than worth it if he accepts.

"Huh." Bescot actually looks impressed. Perhaps he didn't expect you to be that willing to pay. Or to be that desperate, which probably describes the situation better. "Looks like you're serious." Your pay is a bit higher than a rustblood janitor's in the first place, and you can practically see the cogwheels turn in his thinkpan. "I guess I could let you have a couple of times a week for that. What do you say?"

You glare at him. "Not good enough."

Bescot shrugs, but keeps the grin. "Take it or leave it, kid."

You take a deep breath and give him a larger sum, including most of your pay for the current perigree. "You'd get it in a week," you add. Payday is on the 28th, and today is 21st. Now you're not having any entertainment at all at port, and you'll have to live on the most basic foodstuffs without add-ons for over a perigree. It's fine, though.

"Heh," Bescot says. You hope he believes your savings are larger than they are, because frankly, you doubt giving up this much for some extra relievator use coupled with unpaid work could seem sane to anyone. If he backs off now and instead goes to talk to his superiors about your weird behavior—

"I'll give you four times a week," he says. Somehow you're ridiculously grateful just for the fact that he's not brushing you off. "Starting when I get the all the money. Is that good enough for you?" His grin goes wicked again.

You frown, trying to think. "Five," you say carefully. You wanted all seven, but you don't think he'd be willing to give it all to you, and you're afraid to push.

Bescot drums his finger against the wall. "How about this – you can have my relievator maintenance five times a week for that sum _plus_ ten percent of your monthly pay until you decide to trade back."

"Deal." You feel strangely light-headed.

"Heh. Deal." Bescot's grin is almost wider than his face now. "Like I said, transaction happens on the 28th when I get the money. Meet me here in the cleaintenance recess block a half-hour before the relievator's status recovery shift begins."

You nod. "Right. And I trust you'll talk quietly about this." Of course he will. He probably knows a fuckton more about this kind of shit than you do.

"Don't worry, kid. As long as the job gets done properly, the higher-bloods wouldn't care about stuff like this. If it doesn't, though, they might cull both of us, so let me tell you right now that the deal is revoked at the slightest sign of trouble. I mean, you don't want to kill yourself either, so this is obvious. For example, don't think you can spend all night fucking the relievator – if it doesn't get enough recovery time it'll break down in days." He points three fingers towards your chest in a telling imitation of a culling fork. "Quickies are fine, though."

"Right. Okay." You start to leave. "I'll see you later, then."

"Yep." Bescot waves you off. "Nice doing business with you, kid."

It's not until you're back in the safety of your respite block that it starts to sink in what you just did. It occurs to you that your life is a rampaging offroad four-wheel-vehicle with no windshield and an insane monkey lusus for a driver. You've been ripped off like a woolbeast in a cloth factory, and you don't even feel bad about it.

You feel good. Soon, you'll get to see John almost every day.


	10. Chapter 10

Somehow you manage to make the days pass. You do your job. You fool around like an easily distracted wiggler with your husktop, trying and failing spectacularly to code a Trojan, which is not how you tell the story to Sollux. For the sake of your own sanity you start tuning out when you hear someone talk about the relievator, and if your wiggler friends try to breach the subject with you they get a faceful of forcefully changed topic. They can think whatever they want about your attitude, but you have nothing to say about the relievator that they'd be willing to listen to, and Aradia is right when she notes that you are slightly less tense than you used to be.

You're almost ashamed for feeling better, because nothing has changed. John is the masturbation toy of every single person you come into contact with, and that knowledge still makes your stomach churn. But you have something to look forward to, and you _have_ to believe it will make a difference. In the meantime you're trying not to think.

The empty day on the relievator reservation list was the 25th of the perigree, and when it arrives you feel a sting of regret that you never tried to find out what it meant. It doesn't matter, of course, and you've practically convinced yourself that it has to be a day of rest for John – the janitors are obviously concerned about his recovery rates, at least – but you still feel vaguely uneasy about it when you go on your work shift that day.

The uneasiness fades a bit with the first part of your shift. There's no fucking point in worrying about something that might not even be anything to worry about in the first place. You'll finally see John tomorrow, and the best you can do is ask him about it afterwards.

Over lunch, you get into a heated debate with Sollux over the merits and demerits of the newly developed Atlantica class of battleships, and when he and Aradia leave the food distribution block to get back to their stations you feel confident that you won the debate and convinced him that the Atlanticas kick humongous fat ass. 

You and Tavros have a bit later lunch recess than the other two, so you stay for a few minutes longer. Tavros hasn't even finished his meal yet, and you feel no particular reason to hurry back to your desk. Looking out over the hall there are trolls from several different shifts scurrying around, leaving and entering and going about their mostly nourishment related business. It's not exactly relaxing to watch, but it beats staring at the ceiling, and Tavros is too busy with his greenroot stew to have anything to say.

You're still sitting there watching the crowd when the vice captain strides in through the main entrance over on the other side of the hall. She's a tall woman, teal leaning towards green – which is as high as it goes aboard this freighter except for the captain herself who is on the bluer end of teal – and as far as you know she's a decent enough person. At least not the kind to have subordinates whipped for speaking out of line, which you've heard rumors of the captain doing. You speculate that this could have something to do with the fact that the vice captain's moirail and matesprit are both rustbloods.

In any case, right now she's slowly and purposefully walking into the food distribution block with a small group of other people in tow. There are too many people and tables in the way to see clearly, but it seems she brought something that's causing a bit of commotion over in that end. You frown, not because you necessarily think it's bad news, but because there are too many things that _would_ be bad news to you. You stand up to see better, sincerely hoping it's not a visiting artist collecting bloodpaint. 

It looks like the vice captain is holding a leash. Which means she's bringing an animal along? That shouldn't be a danger to you, but—

You can feel your ugly mutant blood pounding nervously in your veins, but _of course_ it's an animal. Whatever is on the leash is low on the ground and slow moving, and you've seen officers bring small livestock to the canteen for tenderizing and slaughter in public before – there's no reason whatsoever that this would be anything else.

Except you didn't think the ship still had any live food animals left.

You could be imagining things, but there seems to be an excited murmur rising from the tables the vice captain's group is walking past. You see wide grins and catch bursts of laughter, and many of the people closest to the animal's path seem to reach out with hands or feet to touch it. Some are even getting up and joining the vice captain's following. That doesn't usually happen with food animals for tenderislaughter.

You sit back down with a soft _thunk_. You're not assuming the worst. You're _not_. 

(You should leave, _now_.)

"What is happening, over there?" Tavros asks with passing curiosity.

"I don't know." It comes out weakly. The vice captain is proceeding with her leash through the spaces between the tables, going in your direction.

"I wonder," Tavros muses, "if it's that thing, that the older people in my department talked about, in a coy manner, and secretive, because they didn't want to spoil the surprise, they said?" He stands up to see better too, the robotic joints of his prosthetic legs creaking slightly. You find yourself looking at him instead of the other way, and you see how his eyes widen before he grins and starts laughing softly. "Heh, heh, wow, that's..."

You don't ask, and not only because your stomach feels like it's full of radioactive lead. But you do turn your head to look when the vice captain rounds the corner of a nearby table and, pulling slightly on the leash, brings the thing you still tried to hope was livestock into plain view.

It is John.

He's down on hands and knees on the cold metal floor, no open cuts but a scattering of bruises on his bare skin. His face is turned down towards his own hands, obscured from view by his hair, but you can see the drops of tear water on the floor under him. He's shaking visibly even from here, especially when he's forced to move. The leash is fastened to his collar, and when the vice captain pulls, he crawls forward, each movement stiff and deliberate. Like he doesn't actually have the energy to move, but he has even less energy to try to refuse.

Your first half-panicked thought is that he's going to be slaughtered and eaten. But no, of course that's not going to happen to an alien creature that is valuable for other activities. But what the fuck is he doing here? You've barely finished the thought before you realize that you can guess, because why would they bring him out in public if they weren't going to let people fuck him here? It's what he's _for_.

 _Fucking shithive golemlicking hellfire._ This is the absolute worst situation imaginable for you to get your idiotic hero on and make a futile attempt to save him, but just reigning yourself in _hurts_. Except no, pain is still a thing happening to _him_ , not you.

Hands are reaching out to touch John's head and back as he crawls past the tables on all fours. Some people are almost playfully kicking him in the sides, though none of them hard enough to topple him over. The thing that makes John's limbs stumble and has him cry out loud enough to be audible in the din is when someone bangs their hand against... something that hangs right behind him.

 _Fucking hells and all their fucking shitblasting angels._ Your fingers are digging into your upper arms, which is probably completely abnormal but who cares when everyone is looking at John and it's all you can do to stop yourself from breaking your own skin. John is close enough now that it's obvious that he's not just exhausted and aching from weeks of abuse on top of being humiliated beyond any sane limits even for the worst of highblood-murdering terrorists, but he's tight with pain. Your skin is crawling in sympathy shudders and useless, helpless self-disgust.

There's a thick wooden rod buried in his waste chute. You can't tell how far inside it goes, but there's almost a foot of it sticking out, quivering back and forth when John forces his legs to move, and from the way he reacts when someone slaps the rod you're pretty sure it's wedged deep.

You _can't do a thing about this_. You can't even cry without throwing your own life away in about three ways. The best you can do is get the hell out of here, which would save you from having to watch, but it wouldn't do a piece of shit for him. And right now you're not sure you can even rise to your feet without throwing your lunch back up.

"Are you, um, alright?" It's Tavros. He sounds concerned.

You're actually grateful – and ashamed for your gratefulness – for the distraction, an excuse to look at Tavros instead of John. "Yes, I'm fine," you lie blatantly. "Maybe I ate too much."

"Well, you didn't eat much, at all—"

There's an even louder cry from John, and both you and Tavros whip your heads around as if on command. A greenblood guy walking behind John has grabbed the rod and tilted it upwards, forcing John down on his elbows, his forehead against the floor and his ass up. He's only a few meters away from you, close enough that you think you can hear his shallow, wheezing breaths. The first thing he'd see if he looked up would be you, and somehow that thought makes you feel even worse. 

You're not helping him. You're one of _them_.

The vice captain has her back against you, and you're perfectly fine with being grateful for that part. She's facing the bigger part of the hall, which means a few tables ends up behind her, and you're at the closest of those.

"Get it up, so everyone sees," she quietly orders two of her followers, who promptly hoist John up, each holding him under one knee and grabbing his corresponding wrist by their own shoulder, so that he ends up sitting between them with his legs and arms spread. His back is to you too, but he's still close enough that if you rose and took one step that way you'd be able to touch him. Or rip him from them and—

And die. You can't.

John is still barely raising his face. That same greenblood shoves the rod stuck inside him upwards and wiggles it, which makes him cry out again, and even from behind you can see how every muscle in his body goes rigid.

The vice captain raises her voice over the noise. "In case there are any younglings here right now who doesn't know," she says loudly, "Or anyone else who needs a reminder: Our last relievator died more than a sweep ago, but since we have one again we are restarting a tradition aboard the Excess. On the 25th of every perigree the relievator will not be in its block, but instead we take it out and tether it here in the canteen." She points to an almost clear area by one of the walls. It aptly happens to be the same spot as the tenderizlaughter of livestock takes place in.

"Everyone can join in freely," she continues. "No reservations are necessary today. Killing or maiming the relievator is still illegal for obvious reasons, and killing or maiming any fellow crewmember for relievator-related reasons is counter-productive and strongly frowned upon. Other than that, have fun."

The people around you – including Tavros – cheer and applaud. "It's almost too bad," he says to you, "That we, both of us, have to go back to work. I'm going to have to, well, finish early I guess." He's smiling. You hate everything.

"Yeah, I have to get back to my work shift," you mumble and finally manage to get up and slip away. You fail at not looking back when you leave through the closest exit, but all you get is a glimpse of the vice captain and her leash; John must be on the floor again.

Getting out of sight doesn't help. Of course it doesn't. Public group usage is happening to John whether you watch or not, and it's not even that much different from every day, is it? It's all out of your hands. It doesn't matter how hard you gnash your constipated teeth. It doesn't even matter how often you'll get to see John later. This is what reality looks like. 

You're a mutated asswipe from last season's laundry, and you're absolutely not furiously wiping your face before anyone gets a whiff of unnatural colors.


	11. Chapter 11

Somehow you get back to the office, and somehow you get through the rest of the work shift. It's agonizingly slow, and you don't get a lot done. Fortunately, there's not much work that needs to be done today in the first place, so you're in luck. Yes, indeed, you're a lucky piece of shit, and meanwhile your serendipitous palecrush is being violated to the bone by a thousand people at once in the food distribution block. No, you don't know how the logistics of that would work literally, but it's close enough to the truth.

You _do_ understand how great it feels for these shitbulges – meaning every fucking troll ever – to take out their bottled-up stress on him. It would almost be better if you _didn't_ get it, because it nauseates you more that you do. You're a troll too, and the concept of having an worthless sub-troll creature completely at your mercy, screaming and squirming in your power – you get it, in theory. Even worse, you get it on an instinctive level. But for good or evil your bulge is not interested, because your overactive compassion gland makes you see John for what he _is_ , and all you get is another layer of guilt for letting this happen.

You wish today would end already. You're going to see him tomorrow. You can't make it up to him, but you can damn well try.

You're staring dully at your screensaver when you finally realize that the office is already empty. A glance at the clock tells you that work shift ended half an hour ago and you never noticed. Whatever. Your stomach tells you that you want dinner, but John might still be in the food distribution block – god, you hope he's not, but it hasn't been anywhere near as long as his usual so-called activity shift – so no, you're not hungry after all. Besides, if he can suffer through all this, you can sure as fuck survive skipping a meal.

Your usual way back to your respite block takes you right past food distribution, though, and the smell of hot stew wafting through the door into the corridor makes your stomach growl infuriatingly. You're pissed enough at it to curse out loud, which is the moment Aradia chooses to come half-running towards you from the other direction.

"Karkat! I've been looking for you!"

"Why the fucking hell would you do that?" you snap, infuriated more at everything than at her.

"Because—" She stops right in front of you and makes a sad grimace. "Dammit, Karkat, I thought you were feeling a little bit better, but that doesn't sound like a person who knows how to relax at all. We definitely have to do something about this!"

"I'm perfectly fine and my inner psychology is not a valid topic of conversation. Let's talk about something non-horrible, like eye-ripping leaches."

Aradia rolls her eyes. "No! And this is all the more reason for you to come with me, _now_!" She doesn't wait for a reply, but pushes you half psychokinetically through the door to the cafeteria.

"What the hell, I'm not even fucking hungry!" you protest, even as your eyes unavoidably end up looking at the tenderislaughter area. There's a group of people standing around a table, and there's something _on_ the table, and you're not looking or listening or even thinking about it.

"Yes, you are," Aradia says. "Don't think I didn't hear you a minute ago! But we can eat later, because right now you're tense like a bowstring! Equius' bowstring, even!" She's half leading and half pushing you forward as she talks. "And even if you keep disbelieving us, we _would_ be sad if you snapped and got yourself culled. Sollux and I were talking about it, and since you're obviously not about to get a moirail to pet you, you're going to take this opportunity to allow yourself to let loose, because you're not doing it properly and you _need_ it! We're not going to take no for—"

"What the snotgulping fuck!?" you explode. You have a good guess where this is going, and she can take it for an answer or not, but _no_. You'd hate her if she didn't mean so well, and all you feel is a sick disgust for yourself and your species and the universe. She's got a tight grip around your upper arms and she's stronger than she looks, but she stops dragging you when you start struggling in earnest.

"It's either this or we're going to have a kinky pale polyamorous intervention," she informs you quietly. "And none of us really wants that. We also don't want you to die, neither now or when the drones come." Raising her voice to normal, she adds, "Come on! Easing the pressure doesn't hurt or anything!"

"Fuck you, Aradia, this isn't okay in the most basic schoolfeed level of the word and I can't believe I'm listening to this!"

"Karkat," she sighs, pursing her lips and looking at you with uncomfortable levels of pity in her eyes. "Come on, please."

Your throat feels unnaturally dry, and suddenly you're reduced too shaking your head wordlessly. Aradia urges you forward again. You want to scream at her and make her understand what is going on, but you doubt you'd be able to do that even in private, much less here in public. Some of the people having dinner around you are already looking up to see what you're on about.

"Sollux!" Aradia calls out, and you notice Sollux in the group you're heading for, giving his moirail a wave and taking a few steps in your direction. 

"Eheheh. I see you found him." He leaves a gap in the circle behind him, and in it you catch a glimpse of John's pale, pinkish skin pressed to the dark gray table. There are three heads moving rhythmically and moaning blissfully above him; one of them is unmistakably Tavros.

You might be trembling, or else that's just how your blood pusher seems to be lodged up in your throat, choking you. You don't want to _see_ this. You don't have a fraction of a chance to stop it, but your friends can't seriously mean to force you to take part. Except they seem to mean exactly that, and this time you manage to wrest out of Aradia's grip in pure unthinking panic.

There's a flash of red and blue and a barrier of blunt psionic force stopping you before you've taken more than two steps away. You can feel eyes on you from all over the hall. You're making a scene. You _can't_ make a scene.

Fuck.

You clam up as the psionic effects disappear and Sollux takes you by one arm. You truly have no choice. He snorts, making a weird half-shoosh-half-growl deep in his throat like he's not sure if he's leaning pale or black and doesn't really want to feel either. "Fuck you, KK, do us all a favor and stop being an insufferable asshole to yourself just once," he mumbles.

You growl back at him, though you're barely feeling it. Aradia takes your other arm, gently ushering you to the group of trolls, pushing a couple of the others aside to make a little bit of space for the three of you in the circle around the table. You cringe when you see John, but Sollux digs his claws into your arm; you bet he'd draw blood if you tried to tear away again.

John is thrown across the narrow table on his back, legs and head over the edges. There's a long cord running from a circlet around his left ankle to a little hatch in the floor, but the restraint would hardly have been necessary even if he had been strong enough to actively resist. There are too many people here to hold him down. Even from this close he's partially obscured, not just by the people using him as a fucktoy, but a lot of the other people gathered here are fondling him, scratching, pinching, _licking_ , as if they're physically unable to leave a helpless alien body alone. The thin streaks of bright red blood on his limbs read as a flashing sign to your fake-brown eyes that this could just as well be _you_ , you hideous worthless cowardly mutated abomination.

A vaguely familiar yellowblood man with his pants only barely zipped open is plunging his bulge in John's waste chute. He's standing by the edge of the table with John's legs hooked over his elbows to get the alien ass raised enough for easy access to the hole, thrusting hard and fast and smiling violently at nothing in particular.

The rustblood woman straddling John on top of the table is your coworker, Fandra Tundal. Her skirt is pulled up and she's rocking back and forth over him, working his somehow inflated boneless bulge with her nook muscles. She gives you a grin and a nod when she notices you, and you unsubtly flip a finger at her. You feel cold and hot and incredibly fucking sick, and you don't even know what you'd end up doing if you blew up and stopped trying to keep your bloated emotion centers in check. You only know that it wouldn't help.

John's body is taut and twitching all over, his hands clenching and unclenching around thin air. He's not making a sound, though, at least nothing audible over the moans and chuckles and comments from the trolls, and that's because he physically _can't_. His head is hanging upside down from the other edge of the table, and Tavros has forced his entire bulge through his mouth and down his throat. John's jaws are parted to the very limit, his lips brushing the skin on Tavros' crotch, and Tavros has his hands planted on the back of John's head to push it close and keep it like that. His pants are pulled down enough to show the upper edge of his artificial legs, but he's not even thrusting, just slowly rolling his hips to shift the balance and make John's lips rub against him.

There are rivulets of blank tears running across John's forehead and dripping into his hairline. His eyes are squeezed shut and he's visibly struggling for breath through his nose. You can't be the only one to see that's he's being _tortured_ , and unlike a criminal he doesn't even have the assurance of upcoming death. Somehow this is fine for no other reason than that he's not a troll. You want to scream out how wrong it is, but you know it would be both useless for him and condemning for you, and you can't.

You're going to cry. You're going to cry and doom yourself and maybe that's just as well if it means taking everyone's attention off John for a moment. Except it wouldn't _help_ him, and fuck you but _you don't want to die_.

"Let me go," you whisper, begging now. "Please. I'll owe you."

Sollux frowns and leans his head closer. "Look, KK," he says. "Just take your turn and let loose properly _once_. If it works, we have progress."

"And if it doesn't," Aradia adds, leaning in too, "we'll try something else and never bother you about this again, I promise." She wraps her arm around yours in a way that is probably meant to be reassuring.

You feel numb. You're not sure how your eyes manage to stay dry.

Eventually Tavros sighs contently and starts to pull out, taking a step backwards to get his bulge first out of John's protein chute, then plopping it out of his mouth, trailing spit. He says something to you while pulling his pants back up, but all you can hear is John's heavy gasps for air, hitching to the irregular rhythm of the two trolls still working the parts between his legs. There's a drop of saliva running down into his hair along with the tears, and he doesn't open his eyes.

"No," you tell Tavros hollowly, and apparently that is a workable answer, because he simply shrugs and smiles.

There's a loud moan from the yellowblood in John's ass, and then he is done too, tearing his bulge out and smoothly putting it away. There are no blood trails visible on John, but you did glimpse smudged red stains on the guy's bulge. Just watching something shouldn't hurt, but it does.

"Wait, I'm almost there," Fandra breathes over John's chest. "Can someone give me a cup?"

Some brownblood on the other side of the table hands her an empty beverage container, and she almost immediately straightens her legs and gets off John, squatting next to him on the table instead. His bulge _is_ inflated, standing almost as big as the average troll's, but fiercely red and trembling. Fandra puts her fingers around it and quickly moves them up and down, confident as if she's done it many times before.

It almost looks like she's trying to make him release genetic material, but without the right concupiscent emotions and hormones it should be _impossible_ to—

John gasps and momentarily stops breathing. His bulge twitches, and as Fandra holds it down and puts the cup around and below it, it releases a spurt of some kind of white, sticky fluid. There's not enough of it to warrant a bucket, but obviously it _is_ possible to force it out.

"Alien genetic material!" she says, holding up the cup to the people around the table. "What do you think I should do with it?"

You've seen this fluid before, smeared on John's body. This time your stomach actually lurches, and it takes a frantic effort to push the bile back down; an even more desperate effort to keep your eyes clear once one part of you tried to revolt. John is panting, trembling in pain and aftershocks, and your hands are fisted tight enough that you can only hope you haven't pricked your palms.

Releasing genetic material is the most physically intimate moment thinkable, supposedly only possible between concupiscently quadranted partners. _Of course_ they're violating that, too. He's been robbed of everything else.

You wonder how strong John must have been to still be functional at all. You're aching with the need to scope him up, shield him, keep everyone _away_ , but it's fucking useless and _you_ are fucking useless. 

You barely hear the suggestions Fandra are thrown, but the one she pounces on like a certain catgirl you could name is something to the effect of "put it back in the alien." Apparently she takes that to mean "make him drink it." You fail to suppress a revulsed shudder as Fandra jumps down from the table on the opposite side from you, promptly lifts John's head by the hair to have it more or less right-side-up, and puts the cup to his lips.

John's lips are swollen, and his jaws are still slack after Tavros' bulge. He opens his eyes to slits, enough to see what he's being offered, but he doesn't even make a token protest as Fandra almost gently tips the cup to make him swallow his own genetic material. You hear scattered laughter.

Some people are leaving and others are joining the group as it shuffles around to let someone else do the fucking for a while. You're not moving, though. You're not sure you can.

"God, KK," Sollux says, real worry in his voice. "You're a wreck."

"Yes," you growl, barely roused from your stupor. He can probably feel you tremble through his hand on your arm, but you can't make yourself care. "I'm literally the plundered remains of an illicit gamblignant's bark, that's me."

"If you run away like a scared little grub for no reason this time too," he continues in a sharp whisper, "Then we're officially not friends anymore."

There's no time to reply. Aradia lets go of you, and less than a heartbeat later Sollux does the same and also gives you a hard push in the back. You stumble forward and almost fall over the table, catching yourself at the last moment before your face smacks into John's shoulder.

You forget about being furious at Sollux the moment you realize that Fandra is still supporting John's head, and his face is now less than a foot away from yours. John is staring at you with wide alien eyes.

"Karkat?" 

His hoarse voice is filled with pain and disbelief and a smidgen of impossible hope. In the momentary silence after your stumble it seems to echo through the whole hall.

The awkward silence lasts for seconds. You're aware that you're unarmed and that John is tethered to the floor, but you're still entertaining ridiculous visions of picking him up and fighting your way out of here. John's eyes are boring diamond-shaped cavities in your chest and you must have misplaced your fucking lungs.

You open your mouth to speak, but you've misplaced your voice, too.

The silence breaks when Fandra starts laughing. First it's a flabbergasted giggle, but then she drops John's head and supports herself on the table, laughing as if her addled pan mistakes this moment for the height of humorous clusterfucks. Before you know it others join in, laughing and babbling and pointing, and now you remember how to breathe, but all that comes out your gabtrap is a quiet "John."

Then, as if that was the magic word, you finally unfreeze with a snarl. Spinning around to put the table to your back and the closest potential enemies in front of you comes as pure reflex. You notice Tavros' very hesitant smile, Aradia's frown and Sollux looking at his feet with an uncomfortable grimace, but they brought you here and you're not expecting any assistance from that direction. Or any direction, really. Many of the people around you only laugh louder when you twitch, and some are starting to get up in your face as they're all coming closer to you instead of in a circle around the table.

You lean backwards slightly, feeling your face darkening in shame, but somehow it's a light kind of shame. It's all on you and no one is paying any attention to John. This is the kind of wiggler embarrassment that would mean a struggle to regain respect from your peers and keep from being beaten and/or murdered by the first passerby – but it's not the kind of guilt that sits in your guts and devours you from within for being the worst grubfucking shithole of an unnatural, disgusting, pathetically weak troll that ever had the misfortune of wiggling from the caverns. Frankly, it's a relief. 

"Shut your fucking giggleflaps and tell me what the hell you eggstained nooksniffers find so incredibly amusing," you challenge out loud. It's too late to avoid this; you're going to get mobbed, you're going to _bleed_ , and right now that feels like a relief too. You can feel John moving behind you, perhaps settling himself less painfully over the table, and it makes you unreasonably proud of him.

"It said _your name_ ," Fandra shouts from right beside you. "That is so freaking obscene!"

"Shut up and shove that thought right back up your nook where you found it," you shout back, but when you try to go on about her infinite lack of perspective on obscenity you find your voice drowned by the rest of the crowd.

"—made it say 'no', too!?"

"—the hell would anyone—"

"—absolutely weirdest use of—"

"—put something in that mouth to—"

"—so invested in a—"

"—perverse do you have to be—"

"—disgusting—"

"—pay back the—"

"—show us how you use—"

"—think you're so special—"

You're expecting it, but you still sense more than see the first fist coming for your face. You dodge it by a hair, but your attempt to strike back is blocked by someone else, and then a third person's fist strikes the lower part of your stomach, making you lose your stance and almost double over when the pain of the impact spikes through you. 

It's completely pointless; there's too many of them and you have nowhere to run. You doubt they _mean_ to kill you over this, but they _will_. There's a fraction of a second where you see a knee rush towards your face and you know with crystal clarity that it'll split your lip or break your nose or both and it'll be obvious what you are. 

It's fine. You deserve this.

The next moment you look up and realize that the woman about to kick you has been thrown off balance by Tavros stumbling into her. Something else is happening behind the people crowding in on you, and a familiar voice yells something about a brawl. There's no time to hesitate or think; you see an opening and desperate survival instinct kicks in. A second's distraction is all it takes to roll under the table and run like fucking hell.

The sounds of a fistfight remain behind you, and although you think you see a glimpse of red-blue psionics flash in the corner of your eye, it's too far away to be directed at you. You find yourself absconding by the nearest door, through the kitchens, and no one seems to be following.


	12. Chapter 12

Somehow – you can't tell exactly how – you end up back in your own respiteblock. Your blood is rushing in your aural sponge clots like it's trying to escape you after all, and your first action is to limply sink down to the floor with your back against the door, hugging your knees.

You can't believe your skin is still whole. In any reasonable universe you would currently be either dead or on your way to the onboard flogging jut. You were even going to accept that, except then you saw a chance to run, and against all reason you're pathetically desperate to cling to life.

Fuck, why are you still alive?

As your heart and lungs slowly calm down to manageable levels you start wondering what's going to happen now. You made a scene to make other scenes go hide themselves in shame, didn't you? So much for keeping a low profile. Fuck you to the deepest most filth-ingrained hell. You barely resist the urge to bash your forehead against your knees.

Maybe you shouldn't have run at all. What _happened_ back there? Now that you think about it, it seems unlikely that Tavros would have stumbled at precisely the right moment to save you by pure coincidence. And why the hell was there a brawl starting behind you when you ran, distracting the whole damn mob from pursuing you? You'd be grateful, but currently you're too busy wallowing in self-revulsion to appreciate it. Besides, you don't know how it happened, because you're a weaselly tit-feather and didn't even look back.

You wonder what happened to John, and that thought makes you bang your head on your knees after all. You should have—

—you should have _something_. You don't know what.

You do realize that you're not thinking properly. You're exhausted, your emotional filters are clogged, and you should have been dead already. Dinner is out of the question, and even though it's much too early for sleep, you find yourself stumbling into your recuperacoon. 

You wish the sopor could numb you to everything. It can't, of course, but it does make your muscles untangle a bit, making it easier to breathe. Fear and guilt and disgust stay where they are, but somehow you drift off to a fitful sleep.

 

 _You can hear John screaming in agony. You're elbowing your way through a crowd of faceless, signless people, trying to find him, but they're blocking your way, laughing at you. There's so much_ blood _, bright red blood everywhere, on your hands, on your clothes, on the ground. You don't even know if it's yours or John's, but you're desperately trying to cover it up before anyone notices. Finally you find John's hand, but when you grab it you notice that it's just a bleeding arm, ripped off by the shoulder, and John is still screaming._

_You're crawling on the ground now, through puddles of cherry red blood, and when you finally find him there's only his battered head left. His mouth slowly slides off someone's thick bulge, and you catch the head in your hands. He's looking at you, still alive, with wide eyes almost daring to hope that you'll save him._

_"Karkat," he croaks, and the word echoes in the silence._

 

You wake up with a flinch, only to realize that you're sobbing into your slime.

Deep breaths. Just a damn dream, stop thinking about it. You also realize that you went into the 'coon fully dressed – your clothes are soaked – so fuck you for being a squeekbrained piece of twit.

As you stare up at the ceiling you realize a third thing. Your husktop is chirping insistently. Someone has been trying to message you for a while now. You consider ignoring it further, but that would only make you feel worse, so instead you drag yourself up to the computer. You don't bother to dry off more than your hands. Whatever.

 

twinArmageddons [TA] invited carcinoGeneticist [CG] to confidential bulletin board "kk we have two talk"  
twinArmageddons [TA] invited apocalypseArisen [AA] to confidential bulletin board "kk we have two talk"  
twinArmageddons [TA] invited adiosToreador [AT] to confidential bulletin board "kk we have two talk"

TA: kk we have two talk.  
TA: are you even there?  
TA: where the fuck ii2 he??  
AT: i THINK, hE'S ALRIGHT, bECAUSE HE DISAPPEARED FROM THE FIGHT IMMEDIATELY,  
AT: bUT,  
AA: yes he did  
AT: uM, wHY DID YOU OPEN THIS BOARD, sOLLUX,  
AT: i DON'T KNOW WHAT TO SAY TO kARKAT, wHICH IS EMBARRASSING,  
AT: i MEAN, tHE DISTRACTION, tHAT WE MADE, iT WAS A SPUR OF THE MOMENT THING, tHAT SHOULDN'T BE SUCH A BIG DEAL,  
AT: bECAUSE HELPING OUT A FRIEND IS A NICE THING TO DO,  
AT: bUT NOW, tHE MORE i THINK ABOUT IT, i THINK i'M,  
AT: sCARED,  
AA: ...  
AT: tHAT i'M THINKING ABOUT CERTAIN THINGS HE SAID, wHICH SHOULD HAVE BEEN JUST HYPOTHETICAL SILLINESS,  
AT: wAS NOT ACTUALLY THAT, uM, sILLY,  
AT: aND i FEEL HORRIBLE, wHICH IS STUPID, bECAUSE IT'S IMPOSSIBLE TO BE TRUE,  
AT: bUT,  
AT: iT SOUNDED SO REAL, wHEN IT SPOKE,  
AT: aND kARKAT, lOOKED SO SAD,  
AA: tavr0s you know that hell be able t0 read all this 0nce he c0mes back 0nline d0nt y0u?  
AT: yES, i KNOW, bUT THAT'S OK,  
AA: but yes i feel bad t00  
AA: all we did was upset karkat when we tried to help!  
AA: and i w0uld never have c0nsidered this seri0usly if i hadnt seen him like that but  
TA: oh god, he'2 MII22IING.  
AA: i just d0nt kn0w what t0 believe anym0re!  
TA: fuck, iit'2 my fault.  
TA: ii should never have done any of the thing2 ii diid twoday and ii'm a horriible excuse for a friiend.  
AA: s0llux n0t every0ne live their lives glued t0 a c0mputer screen like y0u d0!  
AA: and forcing him t0 c0me was just as much my fault as y0urs  
AA: y0u did help defuse the wh0le incident t00!  
AA: but i d0 h0pe karkat c0mes 0nline s00n because i d0nt think any 0f us kn0ws what t0 think right n0w  
AT: yES,  
CG: WHAT.  
AA: karkat there y0u are!!  
CG: I MEAN  
CG: AM I READING WHAT I THINK I'M READING UP THERE, AND IF I AM, ARE YOU SERIOUS OR ARE YOU TRYING TO TIE MY BATTERED EMOTIONAL GLANDS INTO SHINY RIBBONS AND THROW THEM OUT FOR THE SPACE BARKBEASTS TO GNAW ON.  
CG: THIS IS A SERIOUS QUESTION THAT I WANT SERIOUSLY ANSWERED.  
AT: wELL,  
TA: 2hut up tv, ii want two 2ay thii2 fiir2t.  
TA: II'M 2ORRY KK.  
TA: draggiing you up there wa2 an iincrediibly 2hiitty iidea two begiin wiith and ii'm a retarded wiiggler who can't take a fucking clue untiil iit ii2 that clo2e to liiterally smack me iin the face.  
TA: ii 2uppo2e thii2 ii2 where you tell me we're no longer friiend2.  
CG: THAT'S MY LINE.  
CG: YOU'RE THE ONE WHO SAID WE WOULDN'T BE IF I RAN OFF, AND GUESS WHAT I DID.  
AA: karkat im s0rry t00  
AA: in hindsight we made a h0rrible mistake  
CG: YES, YOU DID.  
CG: BUT WHATEVER, IT'S FINE, I DON'T CARE. YOU'RE FORGIVEN.  
TA: 2eriiou2ly?  
CG: YES.  
CG: BECAUSE "TRAMPLING ALL OVER KARKAT'S FEELINGS TRYING TO MAKE HIM DO SOMETHING HE DESPERATELY WANTED TO AVOID BECAUSE YOU THINK IT'S FOR HIS OWN GOOD" IS NOT AT THE TOP OF THE LIST OF THINGS I'D WANT TO YELL AT YOU ABOUT  
CG: IF MY ABILITIES TO GIVE A FUCK WEREN'T SPLATTERED ALL OVER THE PLACE LEAVING ME SCRAPING AT THE BOTTOM OF THE BUCKET AFTER A SINGLE SPOON OF MATERIAL FOR CIVILIZED USE  
CG: AS WELL AS MY EMOTIONAL CENTER WRUNG DRY AND THROWN INTO A FOREST FIRE TO BURN.  
CG: AND IN ADDITION TO ALL THAT I FIND MYSELF BURIED CHIN DEEP IN APPARENTLY INVISIBLE SLIMY HOOFBEASTSHIT AND *I CAN'T STOP SEEING IT*.  
CG: ALL I WANT TO KNOW IS IF YOU WERE SERIOUS ABOUT WHAT YOU WERE IMPLYING UP THERE AND IF YOU EVEN KNOW WHAT I'M TALKING ABOUT OR IF I SHOULD LOG OFF AND GO BITE MY OWN BULGE OFF IN IMPOTENT FRUSTRATION.  
AT: yES, uM, i THINK,  
AT: i'M SERIOUS,  
TA: ii don't WANT two be 2eriiou2 about thii2, becau2e iit'2 ab2olutely riidiiculou2.  
TA: but you've been actiing weiird around certaiin twopiic2 for week2.  
TA: giive u2 2ome crediit for knowiing you mo2t of our liive2.  
TA: al2o giive u2 2ome 2lack for not con2iideriing the mo2t miindbreakiing explanatiion2 riight out of the box.  
TA: you're freakiing the fuck out when iit come2 two the reliievator and there ha2 two be a rea2on.  
TA: 2o yeah.  
AA: karkat  
AA: when y0u made us imagine a talking relievat0r last week  
AA: it wasn't just hyp0thetical, was it?  
TA: you were 2eriiou2 about iit, weren't you?  
CG:  
CG:  
CG: YES.  
CG: OH GOD YES.  
CG: WAIT, FUCK, YOU'RE JUST TRYING TO MAKE ME ADMIT SOME CRIMINAL LEVEL DELUSION SO YOU CAN TURN ME IN FOR CORRECTION, AREN'T YOU?  
CG: FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK  
AA: karkat n0  
TA: fuck you kk, we know you're paranoiid but let'2 2kip that part.  
CG: IT'S NOT FUCKING PARANOIA IF EVERYONE IS REALLY TRYING TO GET YOU.  
AT: wELL, i GUESS, yOU SHOULD BE CAREFUL WITH sERATH TOMORROW, aND HER FRIENDS, i SUPPOSE,  
AT: bUT THAT'S THE ONLY PERSON, oF EVERYONE I CAN THINK OF, wHO WOULD HAVE A SERIOUS GRUDGE RIGHT NOW,  
CG: ...  
AA: it might have been w0rse if y0u had stayed t0 be lynched  
AA: but since y0u disappeared we c0uld turn the wh0le thing ar0und int0 a rand0m public brawl  
AA: the captain d0esn't care ab0ut wh0 started an all vs all fistfight  
AA: at least n0t when n0 0ne g0t seri0usly hurt  
TA: iif you thiink we diid that becau2e we wanted to get you iinto trouble later then you're REALLY delu2iional.  
AA: s0llux even stunned the relievat0r unc0nci0us t0 keep it 0ut 0f it  
TA: 2hut up, that wa2 a totally random 2tray bolt and no one can prove otherwii2e.  
CG: I  
CG: THANKS.  
CG: SHIT. THANK YOU.  
TA: now we want an explanatiion, thu2 thii2 conver2atiion.  
CG: FINE, YOU WANT AN EXPLANATION AND YOU'LL HAVE ONE.  
CG: HIS NAME IS JOHN.  
CG: I KNOW BECAUSE I ASKED HIM AND HE TOLD ME.  
CG: HE'S A PERSON, HE'S NOT STUPID, AND YOU'RE TORTURING HIM.  
AT: uM,  
CG: HE HASN'T COMMITTED ANY CRIMES AGAINST US AND HIS PLANET ISN'T EVEN AWARE OF THE ALTERNIAN EMPIRE YET.  
CG: THE ONLY REASON FOR PUNISHMENT IS BECAUSE HE'S NOT A TROLL, AND THAT'S NOT EVEN CLOSE TO BEING IN THE RANGE OF ENOUGH TO DESERVE THIS TREATMENT.  
CG: IT'S A FILTHGORGING ATROCITY AND EVERY SINGLE PERSON IN THE EMPIRE IS TAKING IT FOR GRANTED, INCLUDING YOU.  
AT: bUT, uM,  
CG: NOW WHAT?  
CG: DO YOU BELIEVE ME? WOULD YOU HAVE BELIEVED ME A WEEK AGO? WOULD ANYONE ELSE BELIEVE ME?  
AA: yes and n0 and n0  
CG: ARE YOU GOING TO REPORT ME FOR CULLING IMMEDIATELY OR ONCE YOU KNOW MORE?  
AA: it s0unds incredible and m0re than a little bit h0rrifying  
AA: but i kn0w y0u and i saw y0u with the relievat0r t0day  
TA: and that wa2 2ome of the mo2t dii2turbiing and 2hiit ii ever 2aw.  
AT: yES, tHAT VOICE, aND YOUR FACE,  
AT: i FELT AWFUL FOR ENJOYING MYSELF,  
AT: aND THEN i FELT AWFUL FOR FEELING AWFUL, wHEN THERE IS NO REASON TO, eXCEPT NOW, yOU CONFIRM THAT THERE IS EVERY REASON,  
CG: GUESS WHAT, I FEEL GREAT THAT YOU FEEL AWFUL. YOU SHOULD FEEL AWFUL. THANK YOU FOR FEELING AWFUL!  
TA: fuck you kk.  
CG: FUCK YOU TOO, SOLLUX.   
CG: BUT IF THERE'S A SINGLE SLIVER OF A CHANCE THAT YOU BELIEVE ME, DON'T FUCK HIM.  
CG: PLEASE.  
AT: iF i CAN SPEAK FOR MYSELF, i PROBABLY WON'T, uSE IT AGAIN,  
AT: bUT i DON'T UNDERSTAND,  
AT: hOW COULD IT TALK TO YOU, aND NOT TO ANYONE ELSE, eVER,  
AT: dID YOU MAKE IT TALK, oR WHAT,  
TA: ii want to know that two.  
TA: kk are you some kiind of aliien whii2perer?  
CG: DID YOU EVER TRY TO TALK TO HIM?  
AT: nOT MUCH, i'LL ADMIT THAT, bUT, uM, iT MAKES SOUNDS AND NOT WORDS, rIGHT,  
AT: i MEAN, uSUALLY,  
CG: ALRIGHT, TRY TO WRAP YOUR INCREDULOUS THINK PANS AROUND THIS.  
CG: I DON'T THINK HE WAS HATCHED WITH THE SAME KIND OF LANGUAGE AS WE WERE.  
CG: BUT HE HAS SOME OTHER KIND OF SPEECH INSTEAD, WITH OTHER WORDS FOR THE SAME THINGS.  
CG: I THINK MAYBE EVERY MAJOR ALIEN SPECIES HAS A DIFFERENT SET OF WORDS TO SPEAK WITH, BECAUSE HOW THE HELL COULD THEY BUILD EVEN PRIMITIVE CIVILIZATIONS WITHOUT TALKING TO EACH OTHER??  
AT: uM, iNSTINCT,  
CG: BULLSHIT.  
CG: JOHN MAKES WEIRD STRINGS OF SOUNDS BECAUSE THEY ARE WORDS, TO HIM.  
CG: AND ONCE I STARTED TELLING HIM WHAT OUR WORDS ARE HE STARTED SUCKING THEM UP LIKE A SPONGE.  
CG: HE WANTS TO LEARN TO SPEAK LIKE US, TOO.  
AT: bUT, tHAT'S,  
AA: it sh0uld be imp0ssible but its true that theres s0 much we d0nt kn0w  
TA: aliien2 aren't like u2, though.  
TA: they're aliien, that'2 why they're called aliien2.  
CG: FUCK YOU WITH KANAYA'S CHAINSAW FOR USING THAT NONLOGIC.  
CG: THINK ABOUT IT FOR A MOMENT.  
CG: JOHN HAS BEEN KIDNAPPED FROM HIS HOMEWORLD BY PEOPLE WHO ARE ALIENS TO HIM, AND THEN BROUGHT HERE TO BE USED FOR GODDAMN STRESS RELIEF. HE'S SCARED AND IN PAIN AND EVERYONE THINKS OF HIM AS A COMMODITY. CAN YOU IMAGINE WHAT THAT WOULD FEEL LIKE?  
CG: BECAUSE I CAN, AND IT'S NOT THE KIND OF THING YOU'D WANT TO SUBJECT A GENOCIDAL LOWBLOOD TERRORIST TO.  
CG: ON TOP OF THAT HE DOESN'T UNDERSTAND A WORD OF WHAT ANYONE IS SAYING, BECAUSE IT'S NOT THE SAME WORDS HE KNOWS.  
AA: ...ew  
AA: im g0ing t0 have t0 think m0re ab0ut this  
AA: but i guess it explains everything if y0u f0r s0me reas0n started l00king at it as if it was a pers0n  
AA: and then s0meh0w c0mmunicated with it pr0ving that it really was  
CG: *HIM*.  
AA: 0k him  
TA: ii need two thiink about iit two.  
TA: but ii know one thiing for 2ure, whiich ii2 that ii need two 2ee more of thi2 for my2elf.  
TA: kk ii have a reliievator tiime 2lot the day after twomorrow, two hour2 after work 2hift.  
TA: you come wiith me two 2how me the miiracle and ju2t how much of a douchebag ii 2hould feel liike.  
CG: AND YOU WON'T HURT HIM.  
TA: promii2e.  
AT: cAN i, uM, cOME TOO,  
AA: yes me t00  
TA: ye2, ii gue22 aa and tv 2hould come two.  
TA: ii2 that a deal?  
CG: ...  
CG: ALRIGHT. FINE.  
CG: I'LL TRY TO SHOW YOU WHAT HE LOOKS LIKE TO ME.  
CG: KEEP YOUR DISTANCE FROM HIM IN THERE, AND DON'T. FUCKING. HURT HIM.  
AT: uGH, tHIS IS SO WEIRD, aND i FEEL WEIRD, aND ALSO HORRIBLY SORRY, fOR EVERYTHING,  
CG: APOLOGIZE TO JOHN.  
AT: mAYBE i WILL, bECAUSE SELF CONFIDENCE SHOULD INCLUDE ADMITTING IT, iF YOU'RE WRONG, i THINK,  
TA: 2ure, wii2e word2 tv.  
AT: i KNOW,  
TA: aa, can you come over two me twonight?  
AA: yes i think thats a g00d idea  
CG: DAMN YOU ALL, BUT THIS NEEDS TO BE ACKNOWLEDGED.  
CG: THE LAST THING I WANT IS TO GO ALL SAPPY AND MUSHY ON YOU BECAUSE OF THIS INCIDENT, BUT *THANK YOU*.  
CG: I'M LOGGING OFF NOW.

carcinoGeneticist [CG] left confidential bulletin board "kk we have two talk"

 

They believe you. They really do believe you. 

You hear a weird sound, and a second later you realize that it's your own laughter. You feel weightless, as if you're about to start soaring between the stars by your own power, and maybe things aren't hopeless after all. 


	13. Chapter 13

Your rest is conspicuously free from nightmares for the rest of the sleep shift. You suspect you're down with a severe case of the troll disease called friendship, but right now you frankly don't care. It's a nice change to wake up rested for once, even though you don't actually deserve it, and even though the twisted guilt over John's situation returns like a knot in your guts before you've been awake for many minutes. Yesterday still happened and today is back to business as usual for him.

Still, and it's possibly just a symptom of the aforementioned disease, you're filled with some kind of gross overconfidence in your own abilities to make a difference. You have to admit that it was a good thing you weren't killed yesterday. You'll get to talk to John again today, tomorrow you've agreed to see him with Sollux and the others, and the day after that you'll start the maintenance duty you've arranged for. You'll get to see him _often_ , and every time you do is a time no one will be abusing him further. Perhaps you can even persuade your friends to let you have their time slots. And if you can teach John to speak properly, then maybe—

—realistically, not a fucking drop of good will come from it, but you're not thinking realistically, are you?

Damn, you hope Bescot won't back out of the deal now that you've been outed as a grotesque relievator pervert. The thought makes you uneasy, but you push it away. He _won't_.

You sigh as you finish getting dressed and dripping chemicals in your eyes. No one but your old friends who know you well would have considered viewing that display yesterday as anything other than you being _obscene_ , as Fandra put it. And Tavros is right, Serath will have a grudge because she'll blame it on _you_ that she threw a fit and beat John's face bloody. Fuck her.

You decide to carry your sickles today. There are no rules against arming yourself, though social convention is for lowbloods not to. Highbloods tend to take it as a challenge, and a lowblood killing or mutilating a hemosuperior is a severe crime unless you have a much better reason than 'I was defending myself'. Nevertheless, wearing arms can dissuade other people in your own hemorange from challenging you, and getting mobbed again is something you definitely want to avoid.

In the end, work shift passes without other incidents than a few glares; some exasperated, some surly, but very few outright hostile. No one tries to either talk to or fight with you, though that still doesn't make you feel safe. You can only hope your sickles send the message that you don't want any more trouble clear enough.

You do overhear Tandak telling Fandra how sure he is that you're getting off on pretending the relievator is a troll. Apparently someone he knew had heard someone say that you've even released genetic material at it.

"Or perhaps _in_ it," Tandak adds in a blatant stage whisper. "To hide the evidence."

It takes an untrollish effort not to rise to the bait, but getting into a fight over rumors would be the height of shamebiting stupidity. 'He's pretending the relievator is a troll' is probably as close to the truth as they could get while still being completely off the mark, and you should be happy that they have theories that merely cast you as revoltingly kinky and not completely subversive and rejecting a basic element of imperial society. 

Thinking about it, you almost regret telling the truth to Sollux, Aradia and Tavros last night, no matter how happy it made you to have them listen. Any one of them could change their mind at any moment, and then gossip would be the least of your problems. Or, hell, they might have lied about believing you to begin with, and how would you know? What the hell were you thinking? _Fuck._

And even if they do believe you – you admit to yourself that you think they do – you are only dragging them with you into trouble with your anti-imperial idea that aliens are people. Fuck you sideways to the nearest star, but you can't win this. You _know_ that, but somehow knowing doesn't stop you.

You're an idiot. What- _fucking_ -ever.

You have lunch alone. That's not unusual in itself, and it wouldn't bother you normally, but it makes you uncomfortable that your friends fail to show up today of all days.

No, obviously you're not scared. You're merely being careful when you make sure to keep your bag easily droppable and your sickles loose on your belt when you make your way to the recreation deck after your work shift finally ends. 

You find yourself waiting behind a corner until you hear the door to the relievator block open and the previous two users leave, disproportionately grateful that they left on time. This only goes to show how pathetically desperate you are to avoid a confrontation, but you prefer pathetic over dead.

John doesn't react when you slip into his block. He's lying stiffly on his stomach on the soft plastic floor, his arms under his chest and his face buried in his hands. He looks horrible, of course. Yesterday's bruises stand out sharply in blues and purples that make the rest of his skin look even paler than it usually does. Together with a few scratches and bite marks they're scattered all the way down his limbs, as if every single person in those crowds that kept fondling him for who knows how many hours yesterday tried to put their own mark on him.

The thin red welts criss-crossing his back, buttocks and thighs look even more recent. A couple of them are bleeding slightly – _your_ red blood – and since the blood hasn't even been smudged the whipping must have been done by the people who just left.

It's not the frantic panic of yesterday, but something inside you aches like the fifteenth level of troll hell, even though it's still not fair of you to talk about pain. Fuck everything, you just want to hold him.

"John," you say softly.

There might have been a very slight twitch, but otherwise there is no reaction.

"John?" You take a step closer, but there is no response. "John. Hello? John!" The fact that he doesn't even acknowledge you does bring a sting of terror, but you bite down and stifle it. "Fuck." 

You drop the bag and start talking, because you can't think of anything better to do. "Look, John, 'I'm sorry' doesn't cut a single scratch in this fucked up insipid excuse for a situation, and we both know that, but I told you I'd come back. Remember? It's been seven days, and it's not like I didn't want to come sooner or do more but I'm a useless piece of grubshit and I wasn't able to." John's shoulders are trembling, but there's no clear indication that he's listening.

"I know, if I hadn't been a sorry helpless excuse for a brinesucking blood mutant I might have been able to do something more substantial yesterday, but I almost—" You stop yourself, realizing that you're now admitting blood mutation out loud. Hah fucking hah. Damn you, at this rate you'll more than deserve your eventual culling when it comes, but it doesn't matter right now.

"I almost got myself killed just for refusing to actively hurt you," you finish the sentence. "John, I'm so fucking sorry." You say it even though you just concluded that those words were meaningless. "And you still don't understand a word I'm saying, so why am I talking? I don't even know if you're listening."

John makes a good impression of some broken piece of inanimate furniture. It makes the heavy lump inside you grow. You suppress the urge to touch him, because that would sure as fuck not make anything better, but instead you shake out your blanket and gently spread it over him from neck to toes. It's a relief to see that it makes his shoulders relax slightly, but he still doesn't look up or move.

You take a deep breath and sit down, carefully leaving some empty space between him and you. "Come on, John," you tell him. "Tell me you're still there."

"Karkat." It's just a whisper, muffled by John's arms, but it makes you shudder in relief. 

"Yeah."

"Karkat, ¤¤¤¤ ¤¤¤¤ ¤¤¤?" His voice is still a whisper, and he still doesn't move, and maybe it just hurts too much to bother. You can hear that he asks you a question, but the words are just alien gibberish.

"I don't understand." You're not surprised that your own voice is a little bit shaky. "We have to sort this goddamn language business out. I want to talk properly to you, but all I get is nonsense sounds, and that is about as fun as foot ulcers for both of us."

He asks another question, or perhaps it's the same one. This time it's more than a whisper, but only barely.

You can think of approximately five billion questions that he might be asking, and you couldn't answer a single one of them unless he knew more words first, and that's assuming you could answer at all. You sigh. "John, I don't understand what you're saying." 

Silence.

"Do you remember the words you learned before? Ceiling? Floor?"

That makes John groan, or maybe it's some kind of very weak growl. "No," he whispers, and now his shoulders are definitely shaking again. "N-no. Karkat, _¤¤?_ " He goes on to say more things, his voice growing louder and more desperate, but he doesn't give you any time to reply before he unexpectedly starts moving, forcing himself up on hands and knees with a pained hiss. The blanket slips off him when he turns to move in your direction, but he doesn't pay it any attention. You can finally see his face, twisted with pain and despair and something that might be cold resignation, but he refuses to meet your eyes.

You feel ice needles in your guts. "John? Are you—?"

He closes his eyes, raises his face, and opens his mouth. Not to talk, but clearly showing you that he's ready for whatever you want to stick in there.

You physically recoil, almost falling on your back. "John, no! No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, _no! NO!_ " You're shuffling backwards before you know it, waving your hands before your face in what should be a universal 'fuck no' gesture. "John, fuck you, stop it! _No!_ "

He can't be doing that. He can't be _offering himself_ to you. It's like he's given up on everything and decided you're just leading him on or something, because _what else_ could you want but his bodily orifices? You feel bile in your throat, and there's something wet on your cheeks. Hell, you're crying.

John sinks down from hands and knees and turns into a small, tight ball, wrecked with silent sobs. You rub your eyes violently, quietly cursing yourself for yelling at him even as you get yourself back to his side, because if there's anything at all you can do you won't accomplish it if you curl up and cry _too_.

"John, it's okay," you mumble nonsensically. "Shhhh."

John is refusing to look up again, but he rasps your name. "Karkat." It sounds like an accusation to you. "¤¤¤¤ ¤¤ ¤¤¤¤¤? ¤¤¤—" His voice breaks. "No no no. Karkat is—is troll. Not troll? ¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤!"

Bulgebothering shitshoveling fuck. Yes, you get it. You're a troll. Why would you be an exception to his entire concept of trolls? He doesn't know shit about your people apart from the fact that he's a _thing_ here. Maybe he just wants to know what you want to do to him so he can stop hoping and _be_ a thing.

He's breaking apart at the seams. He looks like a pitiful heap of bones and bruises, and it doesn't matter how strong he used to be; he's shattering further every day. And after yesterday—

You can't stand it. Your eyes keep blurring with unnatural pink. Your hand is hovering hesitantly above his back, but you don't think you can break him _more_ if you touch him. "John, I—" 

He flinches before you even connect. You register that he's turning his head in your direction, but before you have a chance to react, he's lunging himself towards you with more strength and speed than you thought he was capable of in this state – not attacking you, but going for something hanging from your belt.

For a moment, you're frozen in stunned bafflement. You'd almost forgotten the sickles you're still carrying, but John must have just noticed them and he's too desperate to waste any time. He has ripped one of them from its protective sheath – because of course you'd made sure they were loose earlier – and if it had been a regular knife or some kind of blade he was used to handling you don't think you'd have been able to stop him. As it is, he hesitates just enough on how to hold the sickle for you to recover from the surprise.

He has already hooked the sickle against his own throat when you instinctively grab his wrists. Another movement of his hands and he would have slit his own wind chute right above the collar, but your grip keeps his arms immobile – one hand on the sickle handle and the other poised to push against the blunt side of the blade – and he's not strong enough to struggle harder than a tremble.

"Karkat—" he rasps between his teeth, finally meeting your eyes. They are wild, the white sclera streaked with red, and his jaws are clenched in frantic determination "Karkat, no. No. Not—not is here." John doesn't know 'let go' or 'let me die' or 'please', but those words are chiseled into his face clear as blinding daylight.

You have no idea what the fuck you're doing. You should let him finish this. You practically _have to_. This might even count as an accident – you got sloppy and he stole a sickle; _you_ didn't kill him – not that it would save you from punishment and blood exposure. But there is no way in hell you can justify your life being worth so much suffering. So why aren't you letting go?

The answer is simple and selfish and utterly insane.

"John, please, no," you mumble, still holding his wrists. You realize you've made a decision. The only one possible, really, and you're not sure why it's taken you so long to consciously admit it. Possibly because it sounds completely grubfucking impossible, but you suppose you've been fully shithive maggots for a while now. "Don't die now." Somewhere in the back of your mind you feel the tears running down your cheeks and hear the tremor in your voice, but your hands are almost steady.

"You can hang on just a little bit longer," you tell him. "Please, John." You wrest the sickle away from his hands and throw both it and the other one over by the bag. "Because I'm going to get you _out of here_. I swear."

You don't know how or when, but you'll make it happen.

John stares at you for a second, frozen, face hard and twisted. Something inside you wants to remind you that it's easy to make promises when the recipient doesn't understand what you're saying, but that part of you needs to shut up. You have to find a way to explain it to him, hopefully without implying that you'll be able to take him anywhere right now, but... You'll figure out what it takes to save him, and you _will_ do it.

John's breath catches audibly in his throat, turning into a heavy sob. He gasps again, but that breaks into a sob too, and then it's like he simply deflates, crying helplessly.

"John," you say, wiping your own eyes and this time you don't even try to resist the urge to hold him. He really does need something more than just words he can barely comprehend. "Shhhh, John." You wrap your arms under his shoulders, trying to avoid touching the fresh welts on his back as you shuffle up next to his legs and pull him in against your chest as tightly as you dare. He's real, solid, still here, and you don't know how that in itself can feel so reassuring to you, but it does. 

"I'm so sorry about everything," you tell him again. "It's not okay, but it _will_ be. I'll get you out. I _will_ get you out, John. Shhhhhh."

John's chest is convulsing with every sob and at first you can't even tell if the hug makes any difference at all, but you hang onto him as if you could put him back together with your bare hands. You suppose you're trying to. He's warm and alive, and if you thought there was the slightest chance that carrying him out of here at this very moment would result in anything but his recapture and your own death, you would do it. It doesn't matter that he's naked and battered and alien; he needs you more than anyone has ever needed a moirail, and the metaphorical diamond inside you is cutting you bloody for not stopping this from happening to him. 

He keeps shaking and weeping like there's nothing left inside him but pain and despair, but at some point he shifts, wrapping his own arms around your back to return the hug. It feels like he's clinging to you, like he's trying to anchor himself to something. To you, or to life, or to something that might resemble sanity, it doesn't matter. It feels like victory that he's even willing to make the attempt.

You still don't know how to save him. What you're contemplating is an even worse crime than simply destruction of imperial property; it'd be _theft_ of imperial property, probably combined with desertion from the imperial army. And you used to think your big challenge would be surviving drone season.

You shudder and slowly rock John back and forth. Like hell you're going to dismiss anything as impossible. You _are_ getting him out of this padded hellhole, just as soon as you can figure out a way that stands even a fraction of a chance. John is finally starting to relax against you and you keep repeating his name between soothing noises in your throat, rubbing circles in his hair in the spot that would have been between his horns. His tearwater soaks your shirt, but you don't care.

If you fail, well, you'll make sure both of you die cleanly in the escape attempt. It would be the least you could do. You shudder again, but John is right there, and somehow you're more determined than scared.

You could sit like that forever, living on impossibly pale feelings and the sound of John breathing against you. In actuality, you sit for most of your allotted time. Eventually John relaxes to the point where he stops sobbing, clinging to you with deep, steady breaths. He doesn't say anything, and you don't want to ruin the moment with language lessons even though there are things you really want to tell him today. You think he needs this more.

In the end John lifts his head when you change positions a bit to see your watch, worried that you're running out of time. He mumbles something alien and meets your eyes for a moment before he lets go of you and pulls back. You release him and he sits for a few seconds in silence, facing the floor and his own hands.

"John?"

"Yes." His voice is weak, but at least he doesn't sound about to implode at any moment. "Good." After a moment's hesitation, he points at the water tap and then crawls over there. He doesn't stand and walk, but you're glad he goes to drink at all.

He kneels and takes a piss down the drain, too. At least you assume it's a piss, because it seems extremely unlikely that it would be genetic material, even though pissing through the bulge looks both odd and a little disconcerting. You turn your back to him and go pick up the blanket again. There's only about five minutes left now, but you want to make the best of them.

Your mutant blood runs cold for a second when you catch John looking at your sickles again once he's done with his business. But they're still out of his immediate reach from where he is now, and instead of going for them John takes a deep breath and glances at you, gratefully pulling the blanket tight around himself when you put it back over his shoulders.

"Are you okay?" you ask. The question is still stupid on par with 'is the green moon purple?', but he meets your eyes for a moment and mumbles an incomprehensible answer.

There is at least one thing you want to tell him before you leave, and you'd rather focus on that for the last few minutes than on the fact that you're about to abandon him again after all. "John, look at this," you say as you sit down next to him. You draw an invisible square with your finger on the empty floor and tap it. "Today," you name it. "Now."

John looks at it, uncomprehending, but you're not done.

You draw another square to the right of the first. "Sleep," you call that one. "Do you remember 'sleep'?" You mime resting your head on your hands and closing your eyes. "Sleep."

"Yes," John says quietly. "Sleep."

"Good. Then look at this." You draw 'today' again, naming it, then 'sleep', then another square called 'tomorrow', then 'sleep' again, then more squares of simply alternating 'not sleep' and 'sleep' to make it simple. You hope that his species – _hyomans_? – have some kind of abstract calendars too, otherwise you're not sure if this would make any sense at all.

John bites his lower lip with his remaining front tooth. "Not sleep, sleep. Yes," he remarks, pointing at your imagined calendar and naming the squares in alien words as well.

"Yes, so—" You mark the first square again. "Today."

"Taday," he repeats dutifully. You can only hope he gets that it means the present day and not any day.

You move your finger to the two next spots. "Sleep. _Tomorrow_."

"Tamorrow." He holds up one finger. "¤¤ sleeps?"

"Yes, tomorrow is in _one_ sleep." You give him a little twitch of your mouth that might have been a smile. It feels so good when he gets stuff, even if he seems to have forgotten the words for numbers.

"Tomorrow—" You point at the 'tomorrow' spot. "—I—" You point at yourself. "—will _come back_."

John raises his head a little at that.

"With _three_ —" you continue, holding up three fingers. "—other _trolls_."

John flinches. "No," he mumbles. "¤¤ trolls." He lowers his eyes again.

This is exactly why you wanted to warn him beforehand. You want him to know what you're trying to do. "But!" you hurry to say. "They are _with me_." You tap your own forehead. "The trolls with me tomorrow will _not_ hurt you. They are _good_ this time. They want to _talk_ to you." You mime a ranting mouth with your hand next to your face. "Blahblahblah, _talk_. Words. Tomorrow. Karkat and three other—"

You're not sure if John gets it or not, because that's when the signal buzzes, making both of you cringe. You're suddenly close to being sick. You'd wanted to tell him more, about the maintenance thing and especially about your promise, but there's no time and _grubfucking helldragons_ , you don't want to leave. You want to sit with him forever and teach him troll language and wrap your arm around his back and make sure no one ever hurts him again, but that's not going to happen today.

Today, you're leaving him to be fucked and beaten and used, again.

John knows the drill, of course, meekly dropping the blanket at the signal and shoving it away a bit. He looks away from you and lies down on his side, hugging his own shoulders. You make yourself hurry to pick the blanket up and stuff it in the bag, incidentally putting your sickles back on your belt, even while you hear someone open the door and come in.

It's Ansred Farcen, of all people. He smirks at you, like he now knows why you were so violently insistent on getting him out of this very block last time you saw him. "You're the one on overtime today," he informs you matter-of-factly, kneeling by John's side. "Get out, dude." His finger is already wriggling into John's asshole. "I don't really want any trouble."

You can't reply, because you seem to have stopped breathing. All you can do is to force yourself look away, walk out the door, leaving John in Ansred's hands, despising yourself with a passion bordering on true spades.

It's only once you're back in the corridor and the door closes behind you that you manage to breathe again, though you're not sure you deserve the air. You blink, raising your face, and only then do you realize that you're surrounded.


	14. Chapter 14

_Oh fuck._

Your sickles are in your hands and your back is pressed against the door almost before you consciously realize what's going on. You're trapped. There's a half-circle of smug faces and sharpened steel blocking your way in every direction. Ansred's smirk takes on new meanings while your think pan forcibly changes gears from self-recrimination to self-defense.

There are seven of them, all lower than green, and all older and larger than you are and armed with various traditional melee weapons. Sickles or no sickles, there is no way in four cancerous universes that you'd be able to fight your way past them without bleeding. If there were just two, maybe, or even three – because there'd be openings – but seven is way out of your range and they know it.

There's a moment of threatening silence, and you can't stop your eyes from flicking between them since the outer edges of the half-circle is otherwise barely within your peripheral vision. Liviet from your office is here, looking like she's embarrassed to even know you. This is what you get for not keeping your head down. You don't know any of the others by name, but you assume the dark-yellowblooded woman in the front is Serath.

Fuck this, you _can't_ die. It's not about wanting or deserving to live; you can't allow yourself to permanently abandon John half an hour after you forced him to stay alive. You made a promise, and dying right now is out of the taintchafing question.

"Well," the person who is presumably Serath says, unbearably casual. "Karkat Vantas, is it?" 

There's no use in denying it. "Yeah, and you're that Serath person who gets a perverse kick in the shame globes out of blaming me for her own fucking mistakes."

You regret the insult almost as soon as it's out of your mouth. You may be pissed, but if you're going to survive this you can't go around _provoking her_ , shit-for-brains. 

Serath frowns, raising her short sword to level with your eyes. "The mistake was yours to begin with, Vantas," she says, slightly louder than before.

You take a deep breath, hands tightening around the sickle handles. This isn't a raging mob. She's talking to you. There _has_ to be a way to get out of this without dooming yourself. 

"Yeah, alright," you manage, looking straight at Serath and ignoring the rest of the group. She's the one with the personal grudge. "That was out of line, and you're right, I did make a mistake." You try to go for humble, but you think it mostly comes out tense. "It might not have been illegal, but I didn't consider the consequences for other people, and that was idiotic. I'm sorry." You can feel your face heating slightly, but a bit of humiliation is a very small price to pay if she won't kill you. "Can you accept my apologies?"

Serath snorts. "He's sorry," she says, addressing her posse more than you. "That isn't much of a compensation, is it?" There are predictable sounds of agreement.

Fuck. You get it. "You want money." Your voice is flat.

"Of course I want money!" Serath snaps. "You owe me, freak!"

"Yeah, what kind of freak thinks it's a good idea to treat a relievator like a mimicbird?" the brownblood guy on Serath's right adds. " _You're_ the one who damaged it!"

"I didn't break any rules," you remind them in a low growl, trying to buy time. 

"No, you merely broke common sense," some rustblood man replies.

It could have been a relief that Serath wants money, but right now you've pledged every ceagar you can spare and then some to Yaster Bescot, both out of your savings and of next month's pay. Your cash account on your personal ID stick is practically empty, and your savings have been loaded to an anonymous cash stick locked up in your respite block waiting to be given away. If she lets you go back for it you could transfer out of that, except breaking the deal would earn you Bescot's grudge instead, and worse, you'd lose the access to John's block that you've bargained for.

"Is it true that you're using it for playing concupiscent?" the woman to Serath's left asks with a grimace. "Because that's fucking _disgusting_. Do you pretend to be pale for your husktop, too?"

Considering your options, you should just give her the money so you can survive to deal with Bescot another day. Fuck your life.

"Fuck, you're so sad I'd almost pity you if I weren't so pissed," Serath says. "Or hate you if you weren't so pitiful! Seriously, I don't _care_ about your disgusting kinks as long as that disturbing incident doesn't happen again – but you're going to pay me _now_ , or we'll charge the interest out of your hide." She holds out her own ID stick, letting it wriggle slightly in her free hand.

"Of course I'll pay!" you shout. "But I don't have the money on me right now." It sounds like an excuse even to you. There are very few reasons for anyone not to keep their money on their ID stick, and since you need that for identification and access all over the ship no one would ever be caught without it. Your hands are gripping the sickles hard enough to hurt, and the doorframe is digging into your back. "Just give me a few—" 

The way her face hardens and her posture changes subtly tells you immediately that she's thinking the same thing. She's not about let you away from here unless you pay either the money or the 'interest'.

If you fight, you'll bleed. This is what you get for not keeping your head down. You're a waste of carbon-based molecules who probably deserves everything you get, but you made a promise and you _can't allow yourself to die today_.

You drop your sickles. 

They fall to the floor with a loud clank, and the sheer unexpectedness of that move makes everyone pause. You take that moment to put your hands on your neck and kneel, raising your chin high to visibly expose your throat.

You'd question yourself for this, and in fact you _do_ , but mostly you're occupied with a barely successful effort to keep yourself breathing while essentially providing public evidence that you are literally worthless. But you can't think of anything else that _might_ dissuade them from bleeding you, and god, you're such a stinking cowardly guttercrawler, but you can't let them see the culling offense that is your blood.

This kind of submission is supposed to be a kind of last resort for a lowblood who caught a highblood's attention in a bad way; it's a way of saying louder than words that you're _not worth it._ You're meek, harmless, no sport. Apparently it works sometimes, but a lot of people would have too much pride to even try, and no one in their right mind would try it when the opponent is a lowblood too. It's never going to work, and all you can do to force yourself to stay down, ignoring every instinct you have.

Maybe it's just pissing her off more. The silence implies you've confused her, and the last time Serath was confused she punched John's face in. Fuck it, you're not breathing again. It takes an effort to suck in air. Your limbs feel like taut wires and you're pretty sure you're trembling, but who the hell cares, you're suffocating in humiliation but it's nothing compared to what John is subjected to.

All you can see at this angle is the corner where the ceiling meets the opposite wall, and nothing seems to be moving, not even time.

"Oh, what the fuck!" Serath's voice finally exclaims, and the next moment she appears in your field of vision, glowering over you. "We weren't going to _kill_ you, fucking gutless freak, but thank you for mistaking me for a motherfucking subjugglator!"

You'd tense even more if that was possible. She said ' _weren't_ ', which should mean she's changing her mind, but you're not sure in what way. You keep your mouth shut and silently beg for her to take this in the way it was meant. 

She turns her sword around inches from your face, like she's considering stabbing you through the brain. Behind her, someone else says with some hesitation, "You can't very well kill him _like that_." You think it might be Liviet.

"I guess you should be flattered if he's _that_ scared of you?" someone adds.

"Yeah, if he's that ready to fold, I doubt he'll ever cause you trouble again. And if he does, you can always hold this over him." 

"That could be fun even if he _doesn't_ cause trouble." Your stomach clenches as several people chuckle.

Serath looks around with a sigh and lowers her sword, then grins wickedly when she meets your eyes. "Alright, freak," she says. "If you're willing to keep that attitude up, sure, I won't need my money right now. Lucky, right? All I want is that you remember very well just how much you _owe_ me."

Owing her isn't going to be fun, but the terms still make you relax slightly. "Fine," you agree. "I'll owe you."

"Good," she says. "But I'm going to need a token of that." Before you have time to understand what she means she puts one hand on your head around your left horn, raising her short sword with the other. You flinch, but her hand on your head stops you from shirking back, and for a moment you're convinced she's going to cut you after all. Then she flips the sword around, and you have a fraction of a second to realize what she's doing before the hilt strikes your right horn.

The impact itself registers as a quake, like the starship is under attack or like the whole fucking universe is shattering. And then you can't feel anything but blazing, white-hot agony. Somewhere you're aware that the damage can't be all that bad, but it feels like she just caved your skull in, and you _hope_ you're not screaming like an orphaned wiggler but you can't actually tell. Maybe you black out for a moment, because the next thing you know you're already crumbled on the floor, breathing too hard.

Shitpuking miserable godslime, you didn't expect... that. You roll around on your back and try to get your eyes to focus through the pain while one hand goes up to find whatever is left of your right horn. Please, no blood. It'll be worth it if there is no blood.

There are horned shapes looking down at you between the black spots in your vision, undecipherable voices dripping from them, but fuck trying to recognize anything.

You close your eyes and sigh with relief when you manage to confirm that your horn still exists – though the shape feels wrong – and the area around it is not sticky with blood. The right side of your skull is throbbing with burning thunder, but that won't kill you.

Footsteps withdraw down the corridor before you manage to get yourself together enough to think clearly – much less speak. You have to wait for a minute or two before you can even convince yourself to move, and by then you're alone. But you can't lie around here like a piece of grubshit for the rest of eternity even if you'd want to. Anyone could pass through and see you, and you can't defend yourself from _anything_ in this state.

Ansred is still abusing John on the other side of that door. You shudder in spite of yourself and finally stumble to your feet. It only makes the throbbing worse, and the corridor seems to be twisting and breaking apart around you, but it's fine, you can walk.

The way back to your respiteblock seems ten times as long as usual, but at least you're still alive.


	15. Chapter 15

You can't make yourself eat anything that night. Neither do you sleep much. Instead you curl up against the wall, rubbing your scalp around your burning, throbbing horn and hating a hole straight through the fabric of the universe to the void on the other side. Every thump from outside your respiteblock makes you flinch, especially after you finally notice that even though you did pick up your bag, your sickles must be still lying out there where you dropped them.

You're a catastrophic failure of a troll specimen, but you knew that. For once it occurs to you to wonder if maybe the opposite wouldn't make you just as disgusting.

The damage to your horn is painful, but the incessant throbbing eventually fades into a stiff soreness, barely noticeable as long as you don't move around too much. It's not like you're mutilated or anything. Your horns weren't large enough to be properly mutilated in the first place, so as usual you're a lucky piece of shit. Sure, you're not exactly dancing with joy over the smooth pale surface where an indecent-sized slice of your right horn is missing, but it's hardly visible if you fluff your hair up around it.

The hilarious thing is that this situation isn't about you at all. If it had been, you wouldn't just have been through two near-death experiences in as many days. Your main preoccupation at your current point in life should have been figuring out a way to get enough slurry for the drones in eight perigrees without exposing your color. You're not sure when that important project slipped down to a priority level somewhere between "Meh" and "Fuck that".

You can't have both a cozy life as a nobody office worker in the Alternian empire for the rest of your unnatural mutant lifespan _and_ save John from an estimated three or four sweeps of torturous abuse before an early death. The fact that you're now determined to shoot for the latter scares you, but not as much as you imagine it should. You can't bring yourself to regret it. You can still feel him sobbing against you, clinging desperately and slowly relaxing in your arms, and the pain in your skull doesn't even compare. 

In the end you spend most of the sleep shift trying to _think_ , turning possibilities and impossibilities over and over in your head. Would you have a better chance at success from a space station port or in deep space? You'll need help, but from whom, and how much can you tell? Sollux and the others may be willing to assist to a point, at least if you can convince them tomorrow. Some others could possibly be persuaded by a nicely packaged lie or half truth.

You'll need to get the collar off him. You'll need some kind of opportunity window to get him out without being noticed immediately. You'll need a ship or a shuttle to escape in – and you'll need somewhere to _go_.

You'd mock yourself for some of the insane scenarios running through your mind, but no. This is what you have to work with.

* * *

You're tired and admittedly sort of twitchy for the next work shift, partly because the ship infuriatingly decides to wobble off to the right whenever you move, and partly because you keep expecting the other piece of footwear to drop. Amazingly, though, no one harasses you openly at the office, not even Liviet. In fact, she treats you like badly conditioned air all day.

Tavros finds you at lunch, and you are actually relieved to see him – at least until you notice his unusually uneasy expression. Something is wrong. He looks abashed while you get your food, and he chooses a table for you by a wall, as far away from other people as possible.

"Um," he says eloquently as soon as you're seated. "Karkat, I..." He trails off, visibly fidgeting.

You resist the urge to facepalm, but only barely. "Something is obviously the matter, but are you going to tell me or are you just going to stutter at me until I develop psychics and rip it out of your mind?"

"Well," he says with a small grimace, "I guess, this is where I put a long preamble, but the fact of the matter is, _I can't do this_."

Fuck, this can't be good. "You can't do _what_ , exactly?"

"I mean, it's been two days, so it has started to sink in a bit, the things that happened, and the things you said, and how horrible it is, um, in a whole lot of ways..."

"Yes!" you agree impatiently. "Yes it is, I know!" You pause. "What is it you can't do?"

"The thing we talked about, that we were going to do today." He scrapes his pronged eating utensil back and forth on his plate. "I can't do it. Um, I don't think you're lying—"

Your stomach turns. _Of course_ he's backing down. You're lucky if he doesn't turn you in. "I've never been more serious in my fucking existence," you growl. "What are you—"

"I know!" Tavros interrupts, raising his face to meet your eyes briefly. "That's the actual problem."

You take a deep breath and convince yourself to hear him out before arguing. You can't yell at him in public anyway. "Go on."

Tavros looks back down at his plate and lowers his voice enough that you have to strain to hear him. "For one thing, the more I think about it, the more, I mean... To sit down and talk to it, like it was a troll, it's not, I mean, it's too..." He goes silent.

"...uncomfortable," you finish for him. "Is that it?"

"I guess, sort of," he admits. "But it's also, more importantly, that the relievator is generally a _good_ thing, and really pleasant and useful, which is not just my own personal experience, but everyone thinks so." He grimaces towards the table. "I mean, just this morning, two of my friends at biongineering, who used the relievator together with me once, they were talking about how nice that was, and about doing it again, including me, and all the things we'd want to do with it. And I didn't even know what to say, or what to feel, or anything, which is very much a stressful way of being."

You feel a weird pang of black-stained pity for Tavros as you listen. This is _awkward_ for him. He's enjoyed using John, and yes, you've made him feel weird and guilty for that. Which is exactly what he deserves to feel, though. "Look," you hiss. "I get that it's uncomfortable, but it doesn't matter what your colleagues and the whole grubsucking _empire_ is thinking, John is still a person and not a damn fucktoy."

"Mmmh." Tavros looks unhappy. "But it's not—he's not—a troll, right?"

You scowl at him. "He's close enough."

"Yes, but, even if that species is similar, and this one doesn't deserve to be a relievator—" Tavros stops and glances around, but you've already done that and no one is close enough to overhear. "—even so, being a relievator is the fact that is true. It doesn't really matter if one person, or two or four people, stops using it."

"I know," you say tightly.

"And the horrible point is," he continues, "if we would try to make everyone stop, we'd be culled, because relievators, they're important." He lowers his voice even more until it's barely a whisper, and you have to lean close to hear. "And, I mean, what if every alien was like a person, like a troll? And everything, that the glorious Alternian empire does..."

He trails off, tapping his claws nervously on the table, but you know what he means. It's a conclusion that you've barely dared to draw yourself, and you definitely think he's right. But it's a matter of questioning the very empire; it's complete and utter treason and you both know it. This is exactly why you should have kept your mouth shut.

"And that's why," Tavros goes on, "I think that, even if you _can_ talk to the relievator, and make it talk and act like a troll, you probably shouldn't."

Your shoulders sink a little. You're so tired. Of course he's right, because somehow he's the sane one, but you've already dismissed any sane course of action. "So it's weird and awkward and you're _scared_ ," you note, only slightly bitterly.

"Yes, I guess, that only makes sense."

"What about Aradia and Sollux?"

"I haven't talked to them, not yet. Because I wanted to talk to you, as soon as I could."

"Fair enough." You pause. "Could you at least have the decency to give John a break?" you ask quietly. "Book a few time slots and never use them? Or are you too _addicted_ to torturing him?"

Tavros sighs. "No, yes, I can do that. I mean, I will. I don't think I want to, well, go on as usual, because of this. It's just, I don't think I could bear to really, _talk_ to i—him. I'm sorry."

You take a deep breath. "Okay, fine. You can always change your mind later." 

"Yes, and so can you. I think, maybe, you were right to be paranoid, after all, and you should probably stop too, before you get badly hurt."

You snort. "Too late for that. And like hell I'm going to stop."


	16. Chapter 16

You catch Sollux online as soon as you're back at your office computer, quickly confirming that at least he and Aradia are still planning to see John with you today. 

On one hand, it's a relief, but on the other hand, you're now expecting something else to go wrong. At least Tavros definitely _believes_ you about John, whether he likes it or not. But for all you know, John might clam up like he did yesterday and instead convince Aradia and Sollux that you're full of shit – and even though you tried to tell him it'd be fine, _John_ might think you're full of shit for bringing them along. Which could be the absolute grubfucking truth, because you'd have no smidgen of neither right nor ability to stop them if they do decide to touch him. All that'd happen would be that he'd find out that he can't trust you either.

Not that you've done much for him in the first place, considering that he's still being used even as you sit here and fume over it. The reservation list tells you one of the greenblood biongineers is with him at the moment, because of course you're morbid enough to check, even though it only makes you feel worse.

Somehow the rest of your work shift passes without incident. Your aching horn still makes the ship appear to tilt infuriatingly towards your right when you finally make your way up to the recreation deck, but either the effect is getting milder or you're getting used to it, because the physical discomfort itself is a lot less nauseating than the constant reminder that you are a pathetic piece of grub-muscled shit. But hell, you never deserved to be hatched in the first place and yet here you are, so life is obviously a dance on ornamental red perennial flowers.

You haven't run into Serath yet, but even so, these corridors feel like another trap waiting to happen. At one point you catch yourself taking the long way around a certain area just to avoid being surrounded by semi-strangers. It's hardly dignified, but whatever, you're alive.

It's only partly by design that you arrive a couple of minutes late, finding Sollux and Aradia already waiting for you outside the relievator block. They're talking quietly to each other as you approach, but both look up when they notice you. Aradia waves, but she doesn't quite smile, and Sollux only gives you a nod, his lips pinched.

"Great," you say. "Let's do this thing."

There's an awkward silence for several seconds, telling you loudly and obnoxiously that they feel almost as uncomfortable about this as Tavros. The difference being only that they don't quite look like absconding cluckbeasts yet.

"What are you waiting for?" you finally growl. "Sollux, you're the one with the reservation. I can think of more amusing things to do than stand around here and look at your ugly faces, so are you going to open the door or not?"

"Yes, you're right," Aradia agrees solemnly, papping Sollux lightly on the arm. "Come on, Sollux, let's do this."

Sollux mumbles something that you can't quite catch, then sighs. "I know," he says, shrugging in your direction. "So yeah, let's look at the alien in your way, KK. This better be _thomething_." His lisp goes ridiculously pronounced, the way it always does when he's nervous – though fuck that, John is not in a position to hurt anything but his perception of the universe, and neither are you.

" _And don't touch him_ ," you remind them as Sollux produces his ID stick and puts it into the lock. Once the door clicks open you push him aside and enter first.

John is alone, fortunately, though he can't have been for many minutes. He's lying motionless, face down on the table, like a particularly well-baked grubloaf for blueblood consumption. The first thing you see is his ass being prominently displayed in your direction, asscheeks red and swollen with half-healed welts and bruises, his legs parted and bent so that his knees are hanging from the corners of the table, and the way he's positioned his hole is only barely not immediately visible.

He's just waiting for the next person to use him. It somehow stings that he hasn't even bothered to shift into a less humiliating position. You clench your teeth and turn your eyes away.

Sollux makes a half-muffled sound behind you, like he's choking on his own unsheathed bulge just from seeing John offered up like that. Because of course he's utterly used to being able to relieve himself whenever John's body is available, and this situation is probably _stressful_. You'd laugh if you weren't so fucking pissed at everything, so instead you glare at him, throwing a glare at Aradia too for good measure even though she's deadly quiet.

"John?" you try, turning your attention back to him. You're not sure what you'll do if he doesn't answer. 

He's wrapped his arms around his head, hiding his face like he's trying and failing to block everything out. His shoulders are trembling, and when you speak his name he gasps – or perhaps it's a dry sob – and shifts slightly. He seems to be struggling to take a deep breath, but it keeps hitching, as if gathering himself enough to speak is more than he can handle. At least he doesn't seem to be ignoring you. 

You suppress a shooshing sound in your throat – _not now, you can't explain that part, too_ – and hurry to unpack your blanket. "I'm so fucking sorry." The useless apology slips out automatically, as if you can't even stop it. You swallow. "Here," you add as you spread the blanket over him and cover him up. Hopefully it'll help him feel more like a person, because he _is_ a person, and fuck everyone who claims differently, but right now you also hope it'll help your friends unsee that _thing_ made of bruised skin and convenient holes.

John shudders at the touch of the cloth, then makes a sound between a groan and a sigh. "Ka—Karkat," he manages. His voice is as hoarse as ever.

"Yeah," you say. "That's me."

"Mmh." He takes another shaky breath and starts propping himself up on his forearms, though his face hangs between his shoulders and he doesn't quite look up. "Karkat, cambak taday." A hiss of pain escapes him when he shifts one of his legs under the blanket to finally close himself up.

"Yes, exactly," you tell him. "I told you I'd come back today, and here I am."

There's an impressed hum from Aradia. It feels validating– _yes, fucktards, John is capable of speech_ – but John hears her too. He flinches and goes very still. 

"Trolls." The word is just a whisper.

"Yes. I'm sorry, but I told you I'd bring them. It's okay. They're with me this time, and _they won't hurt you._ " The emphasis is more for Sollux' and Aradia's benefit than John's, but a quick glance around assures you that they're both standing back, staying a few steps behind you. "I brought them here to talk to you. Just talk."

John shivers and utters some incomprehensible alien words, but then he takes another shaky breath and pushes himself off the table, placing his feet on the floor and wrapping the blanket tightly around his shoulders. He gasps and wobbles slightly when he stands, but he doesn't crumble into a heap on the floor like he usually does. Instead he backs up to press his back against the wall, keeping himself covered using the blanket like a cloak, and only then does he finally raise his face.

His small white-and-blue eyes meet yours for a moment, his face tight with unexpected, terrified defiance under the pain. Standing on his feet on his own accord could easily be a dare for you to guarantee that the other trolls you brought won't punish him. Breaking eye-contact with you, he squints at Aradia and Sollux, and when they don't do anything he leans his head back against the wall with a shiver.

"It's okay," you tell him. "They're good." You're not wrong about this. You _can't_ be.

"Good," John repeats. He grimaces and says a few more alien words, sounding doubtful. "Good trolls. Great trolls." He's looking down again, his whole body tense. "Karkat is good troll."

You can hardly blame him for being skeptical, but before you can say anything Aradia soundlessly appears beside you, spooking you enough to make you flinch, too. "Dammit, Aradia!" you shout at her reflexively, but she doesn't pay any attention to you.

John shirks slightly as she studies him, but at least she doesn't touch. "It could be that trolls aren't all that great," she mumbles thoughtfully. You're not sure if she's speaking to John or into the general ghostly aether. Her face is tense. "So it—he—speaks," she continues, turning to you this time. "But only a few words, right?"

"Yes, because he has to learn our words before he can use them. You try learning _his_ words and I'll bet a shower of slugs you'll be even more impressed that he's using any of ours at all."

"I guess that if you think of it that way, the strings of nonsense sounds _could_ be used as language. Language at its most basic is nothing but strings of sounds, after all. It's just that usually we don't try to look at alien strings of sounds as meaningful."

"I know, because it's gibberish, right! And it all floats together into an incomprehensible mass of no fucking sense at all, so why should we consider it twice?"

"Exactly." You can't tell if she agrees with the literal statement or the sarcasm. "But you're right, this one definitely does seem to be talking a little and understanding what it's saying." She shudders.

"So am I a raving madman or not? Are you going to cull me for the betterment of the species before I piss in the slurry and bring the end of the empire by overstressed workers cutting each others' throats in unified frustration? Or do you _see_ it?"

Aradia sighs. "It's pretty much what I expected after the other day," she says. "There's no proof that it's as intelligent as a troll, but I think it's a lot more aware than we always assumed, and if it really learns words like you say, I can see why—" She shakes her head. "It's both horrifying and fascinating."

You glance back at Sollux, but he's standing by the opposite wall now, arms crossed and with an unreadable expression under his blue-red shades. You have no idea what he's thinking, but when he notices you looking at him he comments. "No, I didn't think you were making shit up either. I told you, give us some credit here." 

"It's like the proverbial starship crash," Aradia says, glancing at John again. "It's hard to look away even though you hear the howls of the dead and you know that for each moment you stay you risk being torn apart by their undead remains."

"Thank you, resident mortality fairy, for that cheery image." There's no force in your barb. The fact that they're not challenging you on this makes you feel almost light-headed.

Aradia turns to John, who is still watching your discussion warily. "Alright," she says. "Hello, 'John'."

John twitches when she pronounces his name, staring at her like he's not sure what to do with that. "Yes?" he whispers hesitantly, glancing at you. "Yes, is John." He pulls the blanket tighter around his shoulders, but relaxes slightly when she doesn't immediately assault him.

"Okay." She nods. "I'm Aradia."

John doesn't reply. You're not entirely sure he gets which sound is her name, so you interfere to make it clearer. "John, look," you say, gesturing first at yourself, then at him, then at her. "Karkat. John. _Aradia_."

That did it. "A-ra-dya," John pronounces slowly, eyeing Aradia intently this time. He's still stiff as the wall behind him, biting his swollen lip with his remaining front teeth. You're not sure if he recognizes her from other times or not – maybe the steady stream of trolls coming here to have their way with him would make the individuals blur together after a while. Frankly, you hope that is the case.

"Yes, that's right," Aradia says with a smile that is a little too stiff to be actually happy.

John lets out a little huff of air. "Dats right." Those are words he knows.

"And that asshole hiding over there is Sollux," you add, pointing. " _Sollux_."

"Fuck you, KK," Sollux snaps. "I'm not hiding, I'm listening to your conversation. Just let AA talk to the alien." 

You flip a casual finger at him. If he's not hiding, he's at least definitely keeping his distance deliberately. But he's got every reason to be ashamed, and for John's sake you don't mind if he keeps back indefinitely.

On the other hand, Aradia is studying John like she's changed her perception of him from masturbation toy to science show. You suppose that's an improvement. "You're taller than I expected when you stand up," she finally muses.

John stares at her – down, because he _is_ tall – and shifts the blanket around himself. "Yes," he whispers with hesitant defiance. "Standapp." You haven't taught him those words, so you don't think he knows what they means, but then he continues. "Not gedown. Not—Not onyanees. Not tunaroun. Not bendova. Not?" He looks tense and apprehensive, like he doesn't quite believe it. 

The sledgehammer that hits your face is the obvious fact that you're not the only troll who has been saying words to John. Of course he snapped up a few – he's not _dumb_. Although in context most of those words mean 'move so I can fuck you in the position I want'.

"Oh." Aradia grimaces uncomfortably, getting it too. She might have been saying these things to him herself. "No, no, nothing like that," she says. "This is unreal," she adds quietly. "You really do understand things, don't you?"

John doesn't reply. You're pretty sure that even though he understands more than people think, he doesn't understand nearly enough. Yet.

Aradia takes a deep breath. "I think the problem is that _we_ don't understand. There's so much we just don't know because we take it for granted and don't even _try_ to learn about it! I don't even know what to say. It's a little late to do anything about it now – a relievator is a relievator." She sighs and hugs herself. "At least _I_ won't be using you anymore." Her face is flushed dark enough that you can see a hint of maroon under the gray.

"Right," Sollux says with a grimace. "Me neither." He adds, barely audibly, "This is _sick_." 

Aradia gives him a quick hug and a pap between his horns, and you only refrain from growling at them because this _is_ a big deal. 

When Aradia returns to you and John after a few seconds, there's a glint of frantic excitement in her eyes. "Would he answer if I ask questions?" she asks under her breath. 

You note that she used 'he' and not 'it'. "You can try," you tell her, "But we'll have to explain a lot, because he doesn't know a fuckton of words." You glance at John, meeting his eyes briefly. His shoulders are trembling, but he's watching all of you carefully.

Aradia nods. "Alright," she says, turning back to John. "What kind of a creature are you?"

Yeah, that was pretty much the first question you wanted answered, and you still don't know very much. "John, she wants to know what species you are, so—" You gesture at yourself and Aradia, then at him. "—I'm a troll, she's a troll, what are you?"

John takes a deep breath and mumbles something alien. "Not troll," he intonates with a nod. " _Hyu-man_." The last part is the alien name of his species, pronounced very slowly. You've heard it before, but you still don't think you can say it quite right.

Aradia's eyes widen. She still looks a bit uncomfortable, but the excitement is growing, the way she gets about digging up old stuff no one has heard of for hundreds or thousands of sweeps. Or in this case, perhaps ever. "' _Human_ '? That's an actual alien word? And it's the name of your species? What about your planet? Where are you from?"

John hesitates. "Karkat?"

"Yes, wait a second." You haven't asked him about his planet yourself yet, so you should probably explain the word first. Fortunately, your little pile of comic books is still stashed at the bottom of your bag, and you don't have to flip for long before finding a scene setter depicting a colony world from space. "This is a _planet_ ," you explain, hoping that his people at least have an idea of what a planet looks like from space. They didn't have space travel, did they? At least he repeats the word, so you continue, speaking slowly. "Trolls come from the planet _Alternia_. Where do _hyu-mons_ come from?"

"...camfram..." John closes his eyes and shudders violently, then says something undecipherable that sounds bitter and wistful. "Camfram—planet— _urth_ ," he finishes.

"This is amazing!" Aradia says. "I want to know everything! What is it like on planet _urth_?"

You scowl at her, though she's not looking at you so she doesn't see it. You have no idea how to relay that question in simple, visualizable terms, and besides— "That's a moronic question even if I _could_ explain it to him. What would you answer if someone asked 'what it is like' on Alternia?"

"Alright, yes, that's a bit of a wide question, but—" She looks at John, then back at you. Her smile is slightly manic. "There's so much we could learn! If they have different words, maybe they have all sorts of things we have in a different way. There's so much knowledge we could gain, and I—" She sighs and slumps a bit. "Except there is very little point, because it's still a relievator, and we could never study it properly or officially."

"Yes, that," Sollux says, though he still doesn't move and doesn't meet anyone's eyes. "If we ever started to seriously study aliens as people we couldn't have relievators anymore. The whole damned empire would be relievator-less. Or maybe we'd still have them, but then some people would dislike it and the net effect would be more stress on the empire, not less. This idea wreaks havoc on the whole system."

"I know," Aradia says in the kind of voice indicating they've talked about this before. "It _is_ fascinating, but it's also absolutely horrifying and sickening and _I know_. It makes my head hurt trying to think of all the implications, but I'm curious, too!"

"Basically, it's two shitloads of cognitive dissonance," Sollux says, raising his eyes to glance at you. "We're all relievator users, so it's personal, too, but it's more than that. This is like a poisonous hellhive you opened up for us, KK."

"Hah. Fucking hah." You're aware of that. It was pretty much what Tavros was getting at, too, and yeah, maybe you shouldn't have told them after all. But now they're _seeing_ it – seeing John – and you're too damn pleased about that to pay too much attention to the guilt deep down in your guts about exposing them to danger. "Should I grovel and apologize and tell you to go ahead and use John to your shriveled-up bloodpushers' pleasure? Because otherwise you might realize that the stench you smell isn't just your own underwear but the shitstained bottom of the whole glorious fucking empire?"

"Apology accepted," Sollux mutters.

"Nope," Aradia disagrees. "It's not your fault, Karkat. It's a bit much, but we all filled our own 'coons here." She takes a deep breath and gazes at John again. "The worst part is that if all aliens are people similar to trolls, this isn't just about relievators – we could easily question the whole imperial system." She shakes her head. "But we can't do that! We're alive, and I for one intend for us to stay that way."

"Yes, everything she said," Sollux says, turning to you. "I sort of feel like a piece of shit at this point, but that doesn't mean I want to throw my whole fucking life away to make it up to some random alien, so what the fuck do you want us to do?"

"Not nothing!" you retort stupidly. "I don't want to be culled any more than you do, but you said yourself, this is _sick_."

Sollux's grimace looks almost like a snarl. "We should solve this _right now_ ," he says, walking up to you and pushing you aside to stand in front of John. There's sparkles of brightly colored psionics around the frames of his shades. "I can kill it," he says, too quickly, like he's trying to stop himself from backing out. "We can make it look like an accident. You'll both have to help me with the fines, but I can do it, and then at least this particular alien will be away from all this. And then when this ship gets a new relievator, we all _stay away from it_."

"NO!" you exclaim without thinking, getting yourself back between Sollux and John, right up in Sollux' face where your can practically feel the power flashing from his eyes. "You shitbulge, you promised not to hurt him!"

The sparkles fade away from behind Sollux' shades and he exhales slowly. "Then _what_ do you suggest."

You back down a couple of feet, giving both him and yourself space. The four of you – including John, who pressed himself against the wall when Sollux started sparkling, but didn't actually move – end up forming a small circle. Your cracked horn is aching worse again, and both Aradia and Sollux are boring holes in your skull with their eyes, intent upon your answer. You don't have any good ones to give.

"I agree that a mercy kill would be the least painful thing we could do," Aradia says, breaking the silence. "We can't stop people from using it as long as it's here, and we definitely can't remove it. It's imperial property, yes, but if we put our savings together we could probably pay the fines for killing it."

"It's the only thing that makes sense," Sollux says. "Unless we do ignore it, but we all know _you_ are not likely to do that. This'll be embarrassing and expensive as fuck, but if AA and I are willing to do it I can see no single reason for you not to be. Seriously, KK, what do you think we should do?"

They're absolutely right. If they help pay for it, you could kill John right here and now and you might not have to sacrifice your own life after all. If you do it now before your deal with Bescot goes live. It's perfect. Well, it's not like anything in your stinking life is perfect, and you'd be in a crapton of trouble with both Bescot for backing out of a deal and Serath by being unable to pay _her_ – and fuck, _everyone_ would be pissed at the three of you for depriving them of a relievator for who knows how long. The chances of getting through it without your skin breaking might be slim – but not non-existent. It's at least possible that you could survive until drone season. 

Sooner or later there'll be a new innocent alien for your shipmates to abuse. And John would be dead and gone and out of harm's way and you'd never see him again, and the thought shatters the diamond lodged inside you into cutting shards, but that's a moronic reason not to kill him if there's really no other hope. Considering the way he acted yesterday, John himself would probably agree.

You glance at John, meeting his eyes. He's tense, jaws clenched, looking and listening carefully to your discussion, but you don't think he's getting it. 

After a few seconds of terse silence, John opens his mouth and says your name. "Karkat?" His voice cracks on the word, and the vacancy of the missing blunt tooth behind his swollen lips make him look immensely pitiable. All you want to do is to hug him and pap him, but you can't. The best thing you can do would be to kill him.

You made a promise to get him out of here alive. But if no one heard and understood that promise, it's not actually _real_ , is it? And you have no fucking clue how to keep it in the first place. You just know you have never wanted to do something more in your whole fucking worthless life.

"Okay," you say, drawing a deep breath. "What do _I_ think? I think there's enough rotten shit in the empire to feed a fleet of cadaver munchers. And I think—"

"Yeah, of course there is," Sollux interrupts. "It's not like keeping a whole interstellar fleet of bloodthirsty trolls working without turning on themselves is going to be easy or painless. But it does work, and you're crazy delusional if you think there's anything you can do to change it!"

"Shut up and listen until I'm done talking! I said I think the empire is a piece of shit and it's only a matter of time before the munchers crack down on my cadaver as well, so if I'm contemplating the equivalent of tearing my own shame globes off and presenting the bleeding sores at the Condesce's dinner table, maybe that's because I'm thinking that once in a fucking lifetime you should do something you actually believe in." You realize you're shouting at the top of your lungs, and make an attempt to lower your voice. "I believe John deserves to live, but not like this. I promised I would get him out of here."

There. You said it, Sollux and Aradia heard it. Now it's real, and whether to drag you kicking and screaming into court-martial or give you tacit support is up to them.

Aradia looks at you with pursed lips. Sollux folds his arms and lets his shoulders sink. It's hard to tell what either of them thinks. Your blood-pusher seems to have turned into a sledge-hammer in your ears.

"Okay," Sollux says, at the same time as Aradia chirps, "Well, then."

"You're—okay with that?"

"Hardly, but if you've really thrown common sense and self-preservation to the winds and shades, I don't think we could convince you to change your mind." Sollux scoffs and adjusts his glasses. "You've been refusing everything we could think of to make you relax and have some semblance of normal life, and then you throw this fried behemoth at us as an explaination. So yeah, if this is what you've been worked up about, I don't think we'll be able to save you. Maybe if you had a moirail to keep you grounded, but otherwise this isn't going to work. Sorry, KK." He looks down at the floor again.

"I'm going to miss you," Aradia says. "Or maybe I won't, because I'm sure you'll have regrets enough to stick around and yell ghostly woes in my ears for a long time, but it won't be the same."

"Right." You're frankly not sure what you expected. "Thanks for the vote of confidence."

"Yeah," Sollux says. "And by the way, if you have any kind of treacherous plans, I for one don't want to hear a word about it." He grimaces and looks at an empty corner of the room. "But then again, if you would for some _completely unrelated reason_ like to for example have an attention-grabbing computer malfunction happen at some point, you only have to mention it."

You blink. "Really?"

"It would happen mysteriously."

Aradia nods. "Yes! And if there's something else we can do that won't get us killed or incriminated—"

"Can you keep booking relievator time slots?" you ask quickly, glancing at John again who is still listening tensely. "And let me use them to talk to him." You pause. "Please."

"Of course."

"Okay, sure."

You want to laugh, but you don't think you have enough air. You're going to do this. You're going to think up a plan and you're going to _escape from the empire with John_ , and it's a thing that's going to happen. Oh great undulating maws of the Condesce's lusus, you're a traitor and a would-be deserter, and you're queasy to the marrow, but you've never felt better. "Thank you," you manage.

Sollux nods and then unsmoothly checks his watch. "We've got twelve more minutes, but I've had just about enough. AA, can we leave?"

Aradia shrugs. "Yeah, I'm okay with that." Her eyes linger on John, then she sighs. "Karkat?"

"Fine, you can leave. I'm staying as long as I can."

Once they're out of the door you realize that your hands are trembling. They don't just believe you, they accept that this is your choice and what you need to do and they're willing to help as far as they can. You're not even going to ask how they interpret your feelings for John. They get that he's important. 

Does John, though?

You find yourself leaning against the wall next to him, and the door has barely closed behind Aradia before he speaks again. "Karkat." You think you hear a 'what' or a 'why' behind your slightly mispronounced name.

"Yes," you say, looking up at him. "Sollux and Aradia are—They're my _friends_ , and I—" You fall silent, for once unable to find words, especially simple words. "It will be fine," you say instead. "I _will_ get you out. And until then—" _Until then most of the crew is going to keep using you as a convenient masturbation aid to take out their stress on, and I could have saved you from that if I had only taken Sollux up on killing you._

You are selfish and despicable and you don't know how you could ever believe you could save anyone. But somehow you do believe that. "—until then I'll be able to see you every night. Sometimes twice in a night." With maintenance five times per week and Sollux's and Aradia's reservations as well as your own – and perhaps Tavros' too – it's definitely going to make a difference.

John squints down at you. It's still weird to stand next to him and really feel how tall he is. You're not sure why he's peering so hard until he produces an arm from under the blanket and reaches towards your head, brushing the upper edge of your tangles, not daring to actually touch you. "Karkat – haarn?" he whispers.

 _Oh._ He noticed. You don't think anyone else did, but then again, he has the perfect angle to see it from right there. " _Horn_ ," you correct him with a soft sigh.

"Horn," he repeats. His hand keeps hovering above your head.

"And yes, it's chipped." You grimace at his hand. "Go ahead, you can touch it if you want." If it was anyone else you'd mind, but since it's John, it seems alright. "'Touch'," you repeat, illustrating by tapping your good horn, your cheek, your shoulder, your leg. "Go ahead and touch my horn if you want to." You point at it.

He does, and it turns out you weren't ready for that at all. You touched it yourself after getting up from your 'coon this shift, and it only felt sore. But somehow John's warm fingers touching the blank, damaged part of your horn makes you feel so – _safe_.

"Oh, shit," you mumble. All the tenseness and edginess you felt a moment ago just drains away, and it's all you can do to remain standing instead of crumbling bonelessly into his lap. It's pale hormones, you do realize that – you're so hopelessly pale for John that it's not even funny, and that chipped horn is more sensitive than you realized. It feels like you're being papped into a stupor, but you've never even had a moirail, so how can you know what that feels like?

John takes his hand away, and you take a deep breath. He was just satisfying his curiosity – it doesn't mean anything. Except it does mean that he still cares, his personality hasn't been fucked and beaten into nothingness, and that's a reassurance in itself. Damn, you want to save him so bad.

"Is horn—good?" John asks.

"It's okay," you tell him, indicating with a wavy gesture that it's so-so. It aches a bit, but your balance is mostly back and you really don't think there's going to be lasting damage, and you don't really think you could explain. He seems to accept that. 

John chews his lip with his remaining front teeth, like he's trying to come up with words to say but can't think of any. You're going to fix that, now that you'll have more time to spend with him. "Sollux an Aradya?" he asks awkwardly. "Good trolls? Taday?"

"Yes," you agree. "They're good trolls today. And they're not going to come back and hurt you later, either."

"Not—cambak?"

"That's right."

"Karkat not cambak?" There's a hint of panic at that.

"No, no! I will come back! I will come back many, many times!"

"Manimanities?"

"Okay, look." This time you do drop down to sit on the soft plastic floor. John follows suit with a suppressed groan. "This is today." You draw up the same squares you did yesterday with your finger. "Sleep. Tomorrow. I'll come back tomorrow."

"Cambak tamorrow."

"And then the next day." You draw several squares and repeat the words. "Come back next day, come back next day, come back next day."

John's small alien eyes widen. He opens his mouth as if to say something, and then closes it again. After some hesitation, he asks, warily, "Trolls cambak?"

You look away. "Yes. Other trolls come back, too. Lots of them. The same as always."

John tightens the blanket around his shoulders. "Karkat..." He trails off, unable to put his mind into your words. Instead he mumbles a string of aliens sounds. You wonder if the word he's searching for is _why_. Why is this happening to him, why are you different, why aren't you stopping the others? It cuts deep that you wouldn't be able to answer. But then John reaches for one of the comic books you left lying on the table, flips to a random page and puts it on the floor before the two of you. "Talk?" he asks. There's hard determination in his eyes.

You agree, but you don't have time for many words before the signal buzzes that your time is up. John freezes like last time and drops the blanket, baring his skinny, battered body. You tell yourself you're only leaving for a while, but the way he closes his eyes while you pick up blankets and comics and put them away, like he's pretending it isn't happening, still breaks you. 

A vaguely familiar rustblood guy grins at you as you get out into the corridor before he slips through the door to have his way with John.


	17. Chapter 17

You can't keep your mind on work. The numbers you juggle are supposed to represent navigation and economics, but all you can think of is the very slowly shrinking number of hours and minutes until you can go cement your deal with he old janitor and go see John again. Your coworkers still treat you mostly like air after what happened, and you're duly grateful for that, though you're not sure how long it'll last.

The list of people using John keeps showing up on your desktop as if it had a will of its own. The more you try not to think about it, the more you do, and part of you still wants to smash your broken horn against the wall in frustration and self-disgust. But no, if you're going to do something mothergrubsmearingly stupid – which you are – you're going to do it right. You're going to make a fucking difference, as soon as you can think up a way that is the slightest bit plausible.

You see Tavros at lunch, and Aradia and Sollux too at dinner. Tavros fidgets more than usual, Sollux is uncharacteristically silent, and Aradia's smiles have a hint of strain to them, but no one as much as glances at the invisible pink-blooded musclebeast in the block. There's an unspoken agreement between the four of you to abstain from mentioning relievators in any context whatsoever, and it's both suffocating and liberating at once. Tavros mostly talks about a tangled tumor his team has had to excise from the ship's hull, and Aradia goes on about how she looks forward to seeing her kismesis at your next port call. You growl appropriate agreement or disagreement but don't actually say much at all.

The last relievator time slot for this shift is taken by one of the bridge officers, a greenblood named Ramone Hemdal. It looks like she has a full forty-five minutes, so when you finally make your way to the cleaintenance recess block at the appointed time for your meeting with Yaster Bescot – thirty minutes before the end of John's shift – she's already working on relieving her highblood-wannabe tensions on John's body. There's not a single minuscule thing you can do about that, but today you're going to be the one to take care of him afterwards. That's good, and you need to stop thinking about the shiteating reality and start focusing on the possibilities. You're going to see John soon. Longing is tangled with guilt and secondhand pain in your guts.

Bescot isn't even there when you enter his team's recess block. In fact, it's completely devoid of life. You have just enough time to look around in nervous confusion, wondering what the fuck you're going to do if Bescot really does back out of the deal, when he appears behind you at the entrance. You most certainly do not jump when he speaks out.

"Well, hello," he says, grinning widely at you as he walks around and sits down in one of the chairs. "Karkat Vantas, the brownblood kinkster." Great. You're infamous now. Last time you saw him he barely remembered your first name, and you never even told him your second. "I suppose you brought money for me?"

"Yeah," you say, trying to sound casual. You show him your loaded cash stick. There's also a keycode in it that entitles him to ten percent of your upcoming payloads.

"Great, let me see it." He produces a small stick decoder, so you hand him the cash stick and let him check that the sum is right. "Uh-huh," he says, nodding. "Excellent. Well done sticking to your word, kid."

"Why the hell wouldn't I? And now we have a deal."

"Yep." Bescot looks pleased as he pockets the cash stick. "Alright, then." He points a gnarled finger at you, "Now, it's very important that you do the duties that comes with this properly. No one wants the relievator to break down, least of all you or me. It's fine to start out by using it for a bit each time, so that's nothing to worry about, but here's what you _have_ to do." He rises from the chair and goes to the thermal hull. "We keep our supply of the relievator's fodder here, on the top shelf." He points at a row of soft plastic bottles. "One bottle per night, and do make sure the thing swallows all of it. I don't think it'll be a problem, but the first few times I fed it it actually tried to refuse, and that was a bit of a nuisance."

You deliberately keep a neutral expression. "Right."

Bescot takes a fodder bottle and moves on to one of the cupboards. "The rest of the stuff you need is in here. It's the recovery slimes, so listen up." The wicker basket you saw him carry the other day is on a middle shelf; he takes it, plops the fodder bottle in it, and puts it on the table to show you the rest of the contents. They turn out to be three nondescript tubes of slime, similar to the kind you buy sopor in, and a folded blanket.

"This is the most important one." Bescots points at a long, thin tube in very light purple. "Weren't you the one who worried about the relievator bleeding from the waste chute? See, this slime is why that is no big deal. Basically it seals up ruptures in the alien's ass to stop bleeding and infections. And then as a bonus it tightens up muscles and tissues a bit so the hole stays nice and tight. I mean, this is one of the must important stuffs for keeping the relievator in a usable condition, and you'd better not forget it." He nods and picks the tube up. "Here, you stick it in all the way—" he demonstrates with a shoving motion, "—then push here to release the slime—" he indicates the handle on the back end of the tube, "—and then take it out slowly to coat the whole inside. And I know this part is kind of common sense, but do _not_ try to fuck the alien's chute after putting in the slime. It doesn't just defeat the purpose, it'd do nasty things to your bulge, too. Believe me." He chuckles and puts the tube down. "You got that?"

You nod, repressing a shudder. The relievator is a useful commodity to be maintained, not cared for, that's the common sense of the empire. Yes, you did expect something like that to be involved, but having it explained like this makes you wonder how the the blazing hell you're supposed to handle this _without_ violating John. You can't imagine John deserves or likes to have someone push a stiff tube halfway up his guts every night just to make sure people can pleasure their bulges there again the next wake shift, but that's still better than _not_ doing it. "And the other tubes?" you ask before you start thinking too deeply.

"The white one is for the throat. You just pour some into the alien's mouth and make sure it swallows. It fixes up abrasions and shit. Just don't mix it up with the one for the ass. This is probably obvious too, but if the throat muscles tightens up the relievator could suffocate and die, which would be a really stupid way to cause a lot of trouble for yourself and everyone else. The purple is for the ass, and the white for the mouth."

"Okay."

"And the green is for external use." He points at the third tube. "It's less important than the others, but if there are any bleeding cuts on the skin that hasn't scabbed over, you should smear some of this slime on top to make it heal better without infection." He shrugs. "And then there's the blanket you suggested yourself. Just leave it with the relievator when you go. Cleaning and getting rid of excess hair and such is done by pre-activity maintenance, so don't worry about that. Any questions?"

It's hard to stay casual, but you do need to know this shit. "What about the collar?"

"What about it?"

"You mentioned something about turning it off for the recovery shift?"

"Ah, no, that's automatic. It turns the alertness pulses down to a minimum all on its own once you turn the lights off – but you're right, that's important too. When you're done and leaving the relievator block, you need to put your stick with the maintenance key in the reader and press that little button on the left to turn off the lights. Otherwise everything will be on all shift and the relievator probably won't sleep and recover at all, and you see how that would suck for all of us."

"Alright." Then darkness is the only off-switch, and even that doesn't turn the collar _off_. You still don't know exactly how complicated it would be to get the thing removed from John without causing permanent damage, but you're pretty sure it's not designed to be detached at all. "I'll remember that, too."

"Smart kid."

"Are we done, then? Are you going to give me that maintenance key?" You try a smile, but it comes out more like a snarl.

"That's the spirit!" Bescot pats your shoulder in a much too familiar manner, like he fancies himself an old mentor-moirail. Then he places an old scarred ID stick in your hand. It looks like one that has been discarded once already – you hope it still works. "This has the key you need to enter after activity shift and to turn off the lights on your days. Have fun, do the work, and remember I still get it on the third and sixth day."

"Yeah." You take the basket from him. "I will. Thank you."

"Heh. It's really a pleasure doing business with you." Bescot whistles softly and turns to leave, fingering the cash stick in his pocket. You're not sure there are many luxuries he can use it for right now or if he'll save most of it for next port, but you don't care. Neither do you care that you yourself will barely have enough to eat for the next perigree.

John is being fucked by one of your officers, and you have sixteen minutes before you can go to him. You slump into the chair Bescot just left, bury your face in your hands, and wait.


	18. Chapter 18

You enter the relievator block more or less the second you are able to, current user be damned, bridge officer or no. Once you get in, you almost regret it.

Ramone Hemdal doesn't even dignify you with an acknowledgment when you open the door. She is standing with her side towards you; John is on his knees in before her, new and old bruises discoloring his pinkish skin, with as much of her bulge as he can take lodged in his mouth. His eyes are squeezed shut and his cheeks move as if he's trying desperately to pleasure her enough that she won't shove herself down his throat, and from Hemdals vague smile and soft moan he's doing well. Her dark green eyes are fixed on her hands in John's hair, keeping his head moving slightly back and forth.

Your stomach clenches in a familiar way. "Hey," you say sharply. "Your time is up." You think John twitches at your voice, but Hemdal doesn't.

"Shut up, Yas—" she starts in a soft, heady voice, all focused on her bulge and not on you. Then she frowns and looks up. "What the fuck? What're _you_ doing here?"

"I'm taking over maintenance today, and right now you're overstaying and hindering in my duty, so get the fuck out of here," you growl. Part of you wants to physically rip her away as you once did with Ansred, but no, that would be a horrible idea. She's an officer and a greenblood, and you're – _not_.

"I see," she says, and for a moment you think she's going to be reasonable. Then her face splits into a predatory grin, and instead of pulling out she grips John's head tighter, slowly and deliberately pushing her bulge deeper. John's face pales as he gags, his chest and stomach moving in a reflex attempt to heave, and new tears of clear water squeeze from his eyes. His hands twitch helplessly, but he doesn't make any attempt to struggle or shove her away. 

You want to scream in frustration and punch her ugly lights out, but instead you rein yourself in. "I told you to get the hell out. Your time is up for today."

"Then call security—if you really think—that's a good idea," Hemdal says slowly, punctuated by leisurely moving her bulge back and forth in John's throat.

"You're overstaying – get the fuck out!" you shout, then realize with belated clarity that insisting is only going to make her even less inclined to go. She's deliberately ignoring you to make a point – you don't have neither the blood or the position to give her orders. You have to do _something_ , but you don't know what. She's right. Even if a security team would agree on the point that she's overstaying, calling them would be calling official attention to the fact that you're not the actual janitor on duty. Having it known unofficially that you're taking over is one thing, but you don't have neither leg nor platform to stand on when it comes to forcing anyone else to follow the rules to the letter, and Hemdal outranks you by far. Thoroughly learned instincts to defer and keep away from trouble wars with black rage in your guts, but you're a worthless piece of mutant vomit, and you've already caught too much public attention. You could get several good punches in before she could even defend herself. The shiteater isn't even looking at you! But saving John a few moments of this wouldn't help him, and Hemdal would never _not_ punch back, which means you'd be caught redblooded and that would be the end. Your fists clench into painful balls, but when it comes down to it, you're almost as helpless as John. _Fucking assfilching grubshit._

"I think—" Hemdal continues, "—you should have some patience—and I'll be done—soon enough." She grins widely, attention fixed on John's twisted face, the movements of her bulge muffling John pained whimpers.

You force yourself to open your hands before your claws draw blood, hoping that the burning heat of rage and shame you feel flushing in in your face isn't bright enough to be incriminating. If she were looking at you. She's so fucking sure of herself and her right to John's body for as long as she fancies it, and _you can't challenge her_. She does have that grubfucking, shitsmeared right, granted by a glorious empire that feeds on the suffering of people like John. You take a step backwards, ending up with your back against the door, because the alternative would be a step forward and committing unjustified assault on a commanding officer. 

_It's just a few minutes._ It can't be more than that. She _will_ leave. Your teeth clench, and your hands are turning into fists again, but you shut up.

John tries to open his eyes, but Hemdal shoves her bulge down harder and faster for every thrust, and you don't think he manages to focus on anything but to keep breathing. A trail of spit is pressed from the corner of his mouth, and tears keep running down his cheeks. You know he heard you; he knows you're there, doing nothing. 

"You know—" Hemdal says, almost conversationally despite the heavy satisfaction in her voice, "—this is what you use—an alien's mouth for. It's not meant—for mimicking speech. Don't try to imagine—this is your private toy." Her words fade to satisfied grunts.

You're clenching your teeth hard enough to hurt. There should be something clever you could say to end this, but you can't think of anything that wouldn't make it worse. A cowardly part of you wants leave, but you can't even seem to do that.

It probably _is_ just a few minutes, but it might as well be sweeps. You're not sure you want to know how long it is for John. This is his life. And you can't help him even when you're _right here_. You don't want to watch, but you can't look away.

Eventually Hemdal does stop her relentless thrusting. She squeezes John's face onto her crotch, letting her bulge sit in his throat while she takes a couple of deep breaths, but then she finally lets him go. Her bulge slips out of his mouth as he crumbles to the floor, panting and coughing in a naked heap.

"There," Hemdal says casually, closing her fly and then stretching her arms while still standing over him. "That was nice. Now I'm done." She looks you over for a moment. "Look, I don't mind if you do maintenance instead of old Yaster as long as you remember your place. But you'd better not forget. I'll be keeping my eyes on you." With that, she waves you aside and leaves.

You're frozen in place for several eon-long heartbeats after she's gone. _Fuck everything_. You're just another disgusting foulstinking monster of a misfit mutantblooded troll, and what the fuck do you even think you're doing. John doesn't move either. His heavy breathing in ragged gulps is the only thing that breaks the silence.

"John," you manage, mentally whipping yourself raw for hesitating, too. He still needs you. "I'm sorry." Then, louder, "John!" The next moment you're kneeling by his side with no memory of having gotten there, fumbling for Bescot's blanket at the bottom of the basket. He doesn't reply, but his bruised back shakes with a violent sob when you cover him up.

"Kar—Karkat." It's just a whisper.

"Yes. I'm here." There's wetness threatening in your eyes, but you wipe it away with quick gesture.

"Karkat," John repeats, voice cracking. He pulls several deep breaths and makes a short string of alien words. It might be a question.

"I'm so fucking sorry," you say again, pointlessly. 

John shifts and curls up under the blanket, not looking at you yet. His breathing is still ragged.

You sit back, giving him more space and shooshing him softly. "It's okay," you tell him stupidly, not knowing what else to say. "She's gone now. It's finally time for your recovery shift, so there's no one else coming here for a while. You can rest, and sleep soon. I'm here for maintenance this time, so there's no one else coming after me."

John still doesn't reply, but as you talk to him he seems to be making an effort to put himself together. He coughs again, curls up tighter, then forces himself to move. Sitting up makes him hiss in pain, but he does it, shuffling to support himself against the wall. He awkwardly wipes his face on the edge of the blanket, then tries to smile, though it's mostly a grimace. "Karkat," he repeats. "Taday?"

Your people aren't leaving him with any dignity, but somehow it makes you so proud every time he tries to assert it anyway. "Yes, I promised I'd come back today," you remind him. You're late, though. Even if John doesn't have any way to keep proper track of time, he might have expected or hoped you'd be here earlier. "I'm sorry that this is the absolute latest time possible, but otherwise I wouldn't have been able to come at all." There's no way he understands all of this, but you still want to say it. "And I'm really fucking sorry I couldn't stop that shitty officer from doing that when I was right here, but she would have killed me, and I do mean that literally." You shake your head and repeat your promise. "I'm going to get you out of here, John. I really will."

John doesn't say anything, but silently rubs his eyes again with the back of his hand.

"Anyway, I've arranged to get the maintenance duty on most days, so I'm here instead of that old guy who usually comes."

He has no idea what you're saying.

"And that means there's some stuff we have to do," you continue. You're still not sure how this is going to go down, but both you and John need something to focus on, and the maintenance duties is something you have to deal with. You pull the basket closer from where you dropped it. "Look."

John takes another deep breath, broken by a slight shudder. "Bag?" He frowns warily.

"Well, actually, it's a basket." You're pretty sure he recognizes it. " _Basket_."

"Basket. Troll... Troll basket. Not Karkat bag."

"That's right, it's not my bag. It's the maintenance basket, and—" 

"Tenes basket?"

Fuck, is that even a word you want to teach him? Tech and grubs and livestock need maintenance, not people. But it is the word you just used – it's the word everyone uses. " _Maintenance_. Maintenance basket."

"Mentenans. Basket." He says something more, but it seems to be a raspy mumble of alien words. Then he points. "In basket?"

"Yes, I think you already know what's in the basket. It's the same stuff as before." 

John hesitates, chewing his swollen lower lip with his remaining front tooth, as if he's trying to think about what this means. 

You could upend the basket and show him the food and healing slimes, but instead you decide to push the whole basket in his direction. The least you can do is to let him choose his own pace for this. It's Bescot's basket, but you're most definitely not Bescot. "Go ahead, look in the basket."

"Goahed," John repeats. He pauses before parting the blanket and reaching for the basket with his hand. "Tash basket?" He touches it gingerly with his fingertips. 

The fact that he's learning so many words and using them to talk to you shouldn't make you as happy as it does. But every time it hits you how _real_ he is, a pitiful alien person under all those layers of humiliation and abuse. On the one hand you wonder how it can not be obvious to anyone with eyes and ears, and on the other you wonder at the freak of nature that didn't put _you_ in a small block to be fucked and beaten. You're a lucky piece of shit, that's all. You nod at John. "Yes, that's right." You put your own hand on the other side of the basket. "Touch basket!"

"Yes. Good." John glances at you, then focuses on the basket. "Dats right. Touch." He shudders again. "Goahed – in basket?"

"Yes," you assure him. "Go ahead."

He does go ahead, picking up the fodder bottle with hungry eagerness. He's on the verge of opening it before he glances at you again. "Good? Goahed?"

"Yes, of course!" You nod emphatically. It's disturbing that he thinks he needs your permission, but it wouldn't surprise you if Bescot doesn't even let him hold the bottle himself. "Eat! It's your food. I only wish I could give you something better."

"Yes," John repeats, voice cracking again. He struggles for a moment with the lid, but flips it open before you can offer to help. From what you can see the relievator fodder appears to be a sticky, colorless gruel that smells a little like swamp grass. It looks completely unappetizing, but John is already gulping it down. You have no doubts whatsoever that it tastes like shit, but John is kept too hungry to care, and it does contain the nourishment to keep him alive. 

John leans his head back and swallows as much as gravity can give him, then squeezes the bottle flat to get the rest. Only when he's satisfied it is empty does he stop squeezing and the plastic uncrumples back to its former shape. He breathes hard and looks from the bottle to you and then back, like he's wondering what to do with it. Finally he puts it down on the floor in front of him. "Good," he says with a soft sigh.

"I'm not sure the stuff I just gave you qualifies as 'good'," you say ruefully, "But at least it's food. Food is good in general." 

John taps the bottle with a finger. "Is?" he asks clumsily, but you understand the meaning.

"It's a bottle. _Bottle_."

" _Bottol_." He nods. "Bottol bottol." He points at the bottle's opening. "In bottol?"

"Right now?" You pick it up and make a show of peeking into it. "Nothing." You shake it upside down. "Nothing. It's empty. There's nothing in the bottle."

"Notting in da bottol." John huffs and makes another grimace that looks slightly similar to a smile. "Notting." His eyes drift across the relievator block. "Notting notting. Door and watatap and table and notting."

"Yes," you agree with a sigh. "That's right, there's a fuckton of nothing in here."

"Yes, dats right." John grimaces more, then starts saying something right before he seems to change his mind with a shudder. "No." Instead he points at the bottle and then at himself. "In bottle – in John?"

"You mean the food?"

"Yes. Foo?"

"Food. There was food in the bottle before."

"Yes, food. In da bottol. Beor?"

"Before." You gesture with the bottle in two different directions. "Food in the bottle _before_ ; nothing in the bottle _now_."

John takes another deep breath and repeats your whole sentence. "Food in da bottol before. Notting in da bottol now." He tightens his jaws and rearranges the blanket to cover him better before he adds, tonelessly, "Karkat in here now. Trolls in here before." The part that he can't say, that trolls are here _all the time_ , fucking him bloody, hangs in the air.

"Yes." The bottle crumples in your fist. "I know. It's a fucking horror of a travesty and I wish I could just open that door and take you out of here an back to a decent life, but the whole shitsniffing empire wants you to stay here to _keep the people happy_ , so if I'm going to get you out it's not going to be that easy. I'm so fucking sorry."

John replies with a few incomprehensible alien words, then falls silent.

You should try to explain the concept of a relievator to him. He probably understands it better than anyone, though, and you're not sure if having the words for it would make it better or worse. Anyway, right now there are more immediate things you should deal with first. You glance reluctantly at the basket, and John follows your eyes.

"Mentenens basket," he says, as if you had given him an order to name it. When you wait a moment he gingerly puts his hand in it and touches the tubes. "It's?"

"Healing slime," you tell him, then repeat, " _Slime_."

"Slime." John looks at the tubes for a moment, biting his lower lip again. He swallows, narrowing his eyes. "Karkat, now?"

"Yeah, I'm supposed to." It feels like a load on your shoulders. Of course John knows exactly what it is, which makes it easier, but not any less awkward or degrading. Suddenly you can't meet John's eyes. You grimace and look away.

John takes a deep breath, broken by a small shudder. "Goahed," he decides, quickly turning around to face the wall, the blanket dropping to bare the bruises and scabs on his back. The next moment he falls down on hands and knees. He spreads his legs enough to present his chute to you like an improperly wrapped present. You think he might be holding his breath.

Oh fuck. He's making it easy for you, submitting and giving you the same access as Bescot would have demanded, and you truly, utterly wish you didn't have to do this. But it's the duty you bargained for, and you don't have a choice anymore than John does. If he didn't invite it you would have had to convince him, and that would have been even worse. You remind yourself you're not going to _use_ him, just fill him with healthy slime, for his own good. There are smudges of brown, dried blood between his buttocks, telling you clearly that he does need treatment, because apparently the slimesuckers you call crewmates think it's pleasant to thrash his guts with their bulges.

It's still a violation, though – sticking a bulge-length plastic tube up someone's waste chute is simply not a thing that is done. You try to think of any legitimate situation where you'd do this to another troll, but most people would rather take their chances by treating themselves than let a non-quadrant touch them intimately – perhaps if John _was_ your moirail, but that's not something you can just decide, no matter how pale you feel. And this tube wasn't designed to be handled by the one it's being used on. This'll be over quicker if you stop being a shitlicker and _just do it_.

"Alright," you say, not sure who you're trying to reassure. John's asshole opens up for the tube, and it slips in easily enough at first. You can feel a slight shiver in his body through the end of the tube in your hands, and now you're sure he's not breathing. His shoulders look tense as a garrote in use. You realize your throat is making shooshing noises again, even though it doesn't make any difference. If you could only shoosh everything better, you would. 

You try to be as gentle as you can, but have to push harder to get it in all the way. John's only reaction is a very tiny gasp and another shiver. You release the slime as instructed, and only then does John exhale. His back and shoulders stay tense as you pull out, which turns out to take more force than pushing in. His hole clenches up tight and pushes out a sheen of the slime when you pull the end of the tube away. The clenching doesn't look comfortable, but otherwise he the tension finally starts to melt from him when you're done. He slumps to lie on his side, quickly pulling the blanket back over his midsection, eyes closed. You forgot to ask Bescot, but you hope there's an anastetic in this slime. It would make sense to make it easier for John to sleep.

"Are you okay?"

"Yes," John mumbles without opening his eyes. "'Okay'?" 

"Okay," you repeat. "Okay is... good. Pretty good, so-so, not bad, okay?" That's your stupidest attempt at explaining a word yet.

"Yes, okay," John says. "Good." He turns around on his back and opens his eyes. There's less apparent pain when he sits up this time, draping the blanket around himself again. "Okay," he repeats, a little bit hesitantly, but he really does seem more relaxed. 

You find the tension in your own shoulders ease. He's as okay as he _can_ be, and the benefits of the slime has to outweigh the discomfort. You didn't hurt him, and he still trusts you. "Good," you say, too. "Then that's out of the way for now."

"Now, yes," John agrees. "Taday. Karkat cambak tamorrow?"

"Yes, I'll come back tomorrow," you promise.

John almost looks relieved. "Good." As you put the purple tube away, he looks at at the other tubes in the basket. He hesitates for a moment, then points at the white one and asks, slowly, "Openyamouth?" Those aren't words you taught him, but you're not surprised he knows them. He leaves his mouth deliberately hanging open, ready to have the throat slime done with, too.

This one isn't as invasive, but the white tube isn't any larger than the fodder bottle. You think John could easily handle it himself, if he only dared to. It's infantile, but you decide to be literal instead. "Open your mouth?" you repeat, opening your mouth to gape at him.

He blinks, taken aback. For several seconds you just sit there, gaping at each other. Finally John chokes, his face twisting with a suffocated sound into a strange and amazing gap-toothed grin. It's contagious enough that you grin back at him, and then both of you fall ass-backwards into completely unwarranted giggles. You didn't know John could still laugh – hell, you weren't sure _you_ could, but John brings it out of you. His laughter is brilliant and real and silly and makes his face look so natural. This is _John_.

His giggles only stop when they turn into sobs. 

You shut up with a jolt through your spine. "I'm sorry! What happened? John?"

He sniffles and wipes his face with the back of his hand, making an effort to straighten his back and get the sobs under control. "No—No. Karkat. Good. Okay. Okay." He looks half miserable, half stunned, like he can't believe himself that he laughed. Maybe he really did manage to forget everything for a moment, and it overwhelmed him. You have a feeling John used to be the kind of person who laughed easily, but that person is drowning in drowning in a flood of shit and pain, and you wonder if you could ever get to know him. You want to cry, too, or take him in your lap and pap him until he's happy again, but instead you shoosh softly without touching him until he calms down.

Finally he sighs, grimacing. "O—openyamouth?" he tries again.

"Yes, that's..." You pause. "That's what we said, both of us." Time for a language lesson. You point at your mouth. " _Mouth_." You think you've told him that word before.

"Yes, mouth." John points at his own. "Openya?"

" _Open_. You demonstrate by opening your mouth. " _Close_." You close it with a snap.

"Closeya mouth?" John imitates you, snapping his mouth shut.

"Yes! That's right."

"Dats right, closeya mouth." John purses his lips and readjusts the blanket around his shoulders. 

You resist the urge to hug him and instead pick up the empty bottle to demonstrate more. "Open." You show him the snapped-open lid. "Close." You snap it closed.

"Openya botol?"

"Sure." You open it. 

"Closeya botol?" 

"Okay." You close it. Damn, you're almost smiling again.

"Yes. Open. Close."

"Anyway," you say, "go ahead and take that white tube of slime." You point at it.

"Goahed?" John picks it up with a frown, but he seems to understand you well enough. "Openya slime?"

"Well, it's the tube that opens. 'Open the _tube_.' The slime is in the tube."

"Tube," John repeats. "Slime in tube?"

"That's right."

"Openya tube." John unscrews the locking mechanism, then squints warily at the tube. "Goahed?"

"Yes," you say. "Just put some in your mouth."

"Yes, in mouth." He takes a deep breath and squeezes the tube a bit to get some on his tongue, then swallows it quickly. You would take a bet that it tastes even worse than the fodder. Hopefully it makes him feel better, though, like the other slime. He sighs when he's done. "Good."

"Yes, that's very good. Now we're done with that." Now that it's done, you're insanely glad that John didn't try to resist applying the slimes. If he had asked you not to – you don't want to think about it. As long as he's being used for a masturbation toy daily, he needs those slimes for recovery or he would be hurt even worse – and maybe he understands that by now.

The last slime is supposed to be for broken skin, if he's bleeding. You haven't seen any open wounds today, and you're not about to take the blanket away and _inspect_ him like you're probably supposed to – but the normal thing to do would be to ask. "Are you bleeding?"

"Bleedin?" John repeats with a frown.

"Yes." Now, how to explain _that_? "Blood." You pull up a sleeve try to illustrate the concept of blood by gesturing it moving under your skin, and running out when you pretend to cut it. You're not sure he's getting it. It would be easier to actually cut your skin open and show him, but that would be potentially suicidal, and you're definitely not going to cut _him_ to demonstrate.

John wriggles a shoulder out of the blanket and holds out his own arm, looking askance at you. There's a large purple bruise on his shoulder, a slightly smaller one near the elbow and some yellow-ish ones close to his hand, and there are a few thin scabs, but no fresh cuts. He points at the large bruise. "Blood?"

"No." You shake your head. "That's a bruise."

"Bruise. Not blood." He points at a small scab. "Blood?"

"No, not quite. That's a scab now. There was blood there before."

"Scab now, blood before?"

"Yes."

John pinches his lips and tears the scab away. A small drop of his brilliantly red blood appear. "Blood."

You grimace. Well, there you go, now it's demonstrated. "Yes, that's right. That's blood." It's his blood, not yours, but just looking at it makes your blood-pusher feel tight. It's _your color_ , and you wonder again if you're really supposed to be a troll. "Now you're bleeding," you tell John.

John sighs slightly, narrowing his eyes. "Bleedin, yes." He looks like he wants to say something more, but ends up saying it in alien undecipherables.

"Here." You pick up and open the green slime tube. "This stuff is for wounds, when you're bleeding." You point from the tube to the tiny wound, then offer him the tube. You think he looks a little bit relieved when he takes it. He puts a tiny amount of slime on his finger and smears it on the open scab with a wry expression.

"Not blood," he comments. "Good?"

"Yes, that's good. Now, are you bleeding anywhere else?" You wave your finger up and down to indicate his whole body, though it's covered by the blanket. "Are you bleeding? Any blood?"

John lowers his eyes, like he's trying to think or feel if he's got any recent wounds. "No," he says after a moment, without looking up. "Not bleedin-blood now. Blood before."

That much is obvious, but it still knots your stomach. You didn't see any fresh blood either, though, so you believe him if he says he's not bleeding now. "Good. It's good that you're not bleeding." You put the green tube back in the basket and take a deep breath. Technically you're done now. You wonder how long you can stay, and how long you _should_. John needs to sleep, but at the same time you don't want to leave him alone if you can make anything better by being here.

"John?" He should be the one deciding. "Do you want me to leave so you can sleep, or do you want me to stay and talk?"

He tilts his head at you, not quite getting the question.

You say it again, slower. "Do you want to _sleep_?" You mime resting your head on your hands. "Or do you want me to stay here—" you point at yourself and the floor "—and _talk_?"

John blinks and makes a comprehending noise. "Karkat, here," he decides. "Talk."


End file.
